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Negro Mystic Lore 


BT 

MAMIE HUNT SIMS 



“ Dem dat has must give to dem dat hairCtP 


TO-MORROW PRESS Hyde Park 
Chicago MCMVII 





1UBRARY of GGNSHESS 
j Two Copies Receive 

1 JAN 23 1908 




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COPY 6. 


Copyright, 1907 
Mamie Hunt Sims 



P*MfjtUna 

TO MY BROTHER, 

WILLIAM HILL HUNT, 

IN GRATEFUL APPRECIATION 
OF HELP AND ENCOURAGEMENT IN 
MY WORK, THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED. 


Foreword 

In sending out these stories, nearly all of which 
came from Uncle Jake’s lips, the author hopes to 
show the real kindly feeling existing between the 
people of the South and the better class of the 
negroes. That there are cases where this good 
feeling does not exist she is painfully aware, but 
these are exceptions and not the rule. Uncle 
Jake was a reality and not a creature of the 
imagination. He possessed all the kindliness of 
heart and philosophic views accredited to him, 
and while he saw no harm in appropriating some 
of the things belonging to “de white folks,” he 
was willing to spend and be spent in their serv- 
ice. He took great pride in never having be- 
longed to, or worked for, “poor white folks,” 
and the blue blood of his Marster’s family was a 
source of as much pride to him as the fact that 
all the horses on the plantation were thorough- 
breds. A few of the stories the author has used 
as readings, and the pleasing reception* accorded 
them not only at the South but also at the North 
gives rise to the hope that this modest volume 
will receive as cordial reception as the individual 
stories have done. 


CONTENTS 


1 Marse Andy’s Carriage 

2 De Pussonal Injury Man 

3 The Vindication oe Viney 

4 De Meter Pond 

5 The Ghost Walks 

6 Black Jack and the Yellow Hen 

7 Uncle Jake Gets a Dram 

8 The Graveyard Rabbit 

9 An Honest Man 

10 Rosselus 

11 The Witch’s Ride 

12 Aunt Hannah Expounds Scripture 

13 Black Jack and the Pig 

14 Uncle Nelse 

15 Marse Johnnie’s Christmas 

16 The Affinities 

17 Three Short Stories 

18 Helpin’ erlong of Ole Miss Eanes 




















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MARSE ANDY'S 
CARRIAGE 








1 « •• 



Negro Mystic Lore 

STORY I 

Marse Andy's Carnage 

Much of Mrs. Bradshaw’s childhood was 
spent in the country and her recollections of 
Uncle Jake, an old colored man who lived on 
her mother’s plantation, are very vivid. Uncle 
Jake looked after the horses, drove the carriage 
and was supposed to work the garden, though 
as to the latter he was extremely careless. 
Much of his time was spent recounting to Mrs. 
Bradshaw and her brother Roy the glories of 
slavery time. He claimed to have “belonged” 
to “Marse Andy Jackson, de hero of New Or- 
leans ma’m and presidence of de Unity States.” 
He told with pride of having driven the car- 
riage which bore La Fayette to the Hermitage 
to visit the Ex^president. Mrs. Bradshaw, or 
little Helen, as she was at that time, was a 
great stickler for dates and when Uncle Jake 
told anything that antedated the century, she 
would bring him to a halt, not so much that 
she wished to show him up as a fabricator but 
in order to have things straight in her mind 
so that after supper when the family assembled 
for the delightful evenings in a pleasant home 


14 

in the country she could recount Uncle Jake's 
stories with accuracy. Occasionally when she 
brought him up he would temporize after this 
wise: “Lord, Lord, Miss Helen, you shore 
ought ter lived in slavery time cause nobody 
couldn’t er fooled you, not eben one on de old 
timers, but is I ever told you about de time I 
driv Marse Andy’s carridge ter Nashville arter 
Marse Marquis La Fayette?” At such times 
the little boy and girl would be sorely puzzled, 
both were truthful but both wanted very much 
to hear that story again. After a pause so 
tense as to be felt, one of them would say, “Yes, 
sir, but tell it again Uncle Jake.” And the old 
man, nothing loath, would recount the story thus : 
“Well er long time ergo in slavery time I use 
ter blong to Marse Andy Jackson. He was de 
greatest man dat ever wore shoe leather, — He 
was — Little Roy, anxious to air his knowledge of 
history interrupted with, “He won the battle of 
New Orleans.” “De battle ob New Orleans, why 
children, he won all de battles worth winnin in 
the whole Evolutionary war and dem he didn’t 
win himself he pintedly told de other Marse Gen- 
nels how. ter win.” “But,” said the little boy, 
“the battle of New Orleans wasn’t in the Revolu- 
tionary war, it was in the war of 1812.” Here 
Uncle Jake fenced a little. “Chile, is I said 


*5 


pintedly dat war was in de Evolutionary war? 
Hunh I say is I? You chillun is too interrup- 
tin enny how and ef you all don’t hush er in- 
terrupts me I gwine hush my mouf and I 
ain’t gwine to tell you nuthin. I did low ter 
tell you some two or three nannydotes dis mawn- 
in case hits just naturally too hot ter work dat 
garden an I mout as well be er erestentin you 
chillun as gwin ter sleep under dat fig tree. 
But I tell you right now ef dese interruptions 
is gwine ter continue I’s gwine hush my mouf, 
cause I knows dese been some two or three bat- 
tles fit since dat one Cain and Abel fit in the 
Garden of Eden but I alius disremember de 
dates and de entillerments of which frum toth- 
er.” The little boy and girl sudsided and de- 
cided to let Uncle Jake mix his dates without 
further remark. After some preamble he began 
again : “In eighteen hundred and sumpernuthin, 
I disremember egzactly when, Marse Andy low, 
‘Jake, you young rascal, ef I let you drive de 
carridge ter Nashville ter bring your Marse 
Marquis La Fayette, is you gwine have dem 
horses shined up while us is put up at de tav- 
ern?’ I turned back, I did, ‘Yassir, I gwine 
have dem horses so sleek dat a fly will slip up 
and break his neck ef he so much as light 
on em.’ I seed Mammy peepin out de kitchen 
and I went in dare and she lowed, ‘Jake, is 


1 6 


Marse Andy lowed you could drive de carridge 
to Nashville ?’ I lowed, ‘Yessum, he show is said 
so/ Mammy shake her haid and low, ‘You go 
down ter Sis Dafney’s and tell her I say pleace 
for Gawd’s sake ter samin de fermaments and see 
ef de nights is all right for you ter go fer you is 
such a Gawd fursaken nigger dat ef de moon 
don’t hang right when she change supen ull 
shure happen you.’ I went on down ter Aunt 
Dafney’s and tole her Mammy said ef she’d read 
de signs fur me dat she’d give her some vittels 
out de while folks kitchen. En I went on about 
my bizness case ef de signs warn’t right I shore 
warn’t gwine drive dat carridge ter Nashville.” 
“But, Uncle Jake,” asked both the children, “how 
could you keep from driving it if your Marse 
Andy told you to?” The old man slowly shook 
his head. “How was I gwine fum driving it? 
How both you chillun keep from gwine ter 
school dem two or three days las week when 
your Uncle Milton was here?” “But, Uncle 
Jake, we thought that in slavery time you had 
to do just right or get punished for it.” The old 
man looked off into vacancy for awhile and then 
slowly shook his head, “Yes, dats what some 
folks think but it warent so. I jest can’t see why 
folks can’t get de right innards and outards ob a 
question. Chillun, slavery was jest like being 


1 7 


your Marster’s chile. I tuck notice dat little 
Miss Helen turn over and broke ter smiggens 
de five-gallon jimmy john aw strained honey 
week er fore las and didn’t get punished, 
den I see las week she turned over de six- 
gallon jar uv cream and den wut?” “I got pun- 
ished,” said the little girl hiding her blush- 
ing face in her golden curls. “Dar now,” re- 
sumed Uncle Jake, “hit was dat way in slavery 
time. Sometimes you got punished and some- 
times you didn’t, but more oftener you didn’t, 
but I reckon what few niggers had de unfortune 
ter blong ter po white folks mout er been treat- 
ed mean, but ef you all interrups me ergin I’se 
gwine quit talking and go ter pattin my feet and 
singing, ‘Ole Molly Hare, what you doing dare, 
running cross de cotton patch hard as you can 
tear?’ The little girl subsided and the boy 
moved up nearer so he could punch her if she 
tried to interrupt again. “Well Aunt Dafney 
watched fer signs an every day. Mammy fixed 
a big bucket er white folks vittels and git ter 
me out de kitchen winder ter take ter her so 
she keep me in membrance.” “O! Uncle Jake,” 
Helen again broke out, “wasn’t that stealing?” 
Vigorous pinch from the little boy brought si- 
lence and Uncle Jake continued. “Well, de 
night befo us wus ter start fum de Hermitage 


i8 


ter Nashville me an Mammy and daddy went ter 
Aunt Dafney’s ter larn whut de signs wus case 
Mammy had pintedly told daddy dat ef de signs 
waren’t right I wus gwine ter be sick an he had 
ter drive de carridge. When us got dare Aunt 
Dafney ware setting in frunt ob de do eating 
out uv dat bucket while and singing er song 
lak dis: ‘He did not come in de heat ob de 
day, he did not come in de morning. He came 
er lone in de cool uv de evening an wash my 
sins erway/ Arter she finished singing and 
put de lid on de bucket an wipe her mouf she 
lowed, ‘Well, you all cum ter find out bout de 
signs. Night er fore las was de time fur de new 
moon and time I cum to de door dar she wus er 
swinging up dare in de Heavens ez bright an 
sassy as Governor George and not so much ez er 
chadow twixt me and her. Den next morning 
whilst I wus washing my dishes I drapped my 
dish rag three times and dat is er sign a man is 
comin and coming hongry. So you know, dat 
man gwine be Marse Marquis La Fayette/ 
Well wid dat us went home and next morning 
me an Marse Andy went ter Nashville and brung 
Marse Marquis La Fayette back wid us ter de 
Hermitage. An I show did drive cuming home, 
too. Man sur de way Dick and Rowdy hit Jack- 
son Pike wid der heels wus ernuff ter make your 


*9 


mouf water. Dere waren’t nobody inside der 
carridge but Marse Andy and Marse Marquis 
La Fayette and us spun erlong like greased 
lightenin.” “What did General Jackson and 
Marquis La Fayette talk about, Uncle Jake?” 
asked Roy. The old man looked his scorn and 
said, “Honey does you think I was so ill man- 
nered ez ter listen ter two white genelmens ex- 
poundin ter one er nother. I promised tel tell 
you bout driving de carriage an not erbout eaves- 
dropping.” 



DE PUSSONAL INJURY 
MAN 






























































































STORY II 


23 


De Pussonal Injury Man 

There had been a wreck on the “Southern” be- 
tween Birmingham and Selma and John Marvin, 
the husband of Mrs. Bradshaw’s cook, Annie, had 
the misfortune to lose his left foot in the? smash- 
up. The shrewdness and quaint philosophy of 
the negro race is well illustrated by the incidents 
which followed the accident. When Annie came 
back to Mrs. Bradshaw’s after an absence of four 
weeks she was good humored and laughing as 
usual. “Miss Leila, I didn’t want ter stay so 
long but I jest had ter stay ter pertect John fum 
de pussonal injury men. When John got ter Sel- 
ma arter his mashed up foot had been cut off 
dey wanted ter take him to de hospital but he 
begged um ter bring him home. De white man 
what looks arter all the injured folkses fur de 
“Southern” brung him home in de ambulanch 
and arter dey got him in bed de man low, “John, 
de Southern Railroad makes yer dis offer, ef you 
don’t sue de road we’ll send you a trained nurse, 
pay your doctor’s bill, your grocery bill and house 
rent till you are up and as soon as your limb is 
healed we’ll get you a cork foot and give you 
a life job of flagging de crossing at Mechanic 
Street in East Selma at forty dollars a month.” 
“But,” he said, “ef you sues de road we fight 


2 4 

it out through all de courts and never give you a 
job again.” I lowed, “dat’s all right, John ain’t 
studying bout suing de road, but I can nuss 
him case I know I ken get Sis Clanssey Brown 
ter cook fer my white folks tell John gets bet- 
ter.’ Den he lowed, ‘Well, Annie, if you can 
nuss him we’ll pay you twelve dollars a week 
till his limb heals.’ Now, .Miss Lelia, who ever 
heerd tell of dar paying a woman fur nussing 
her own husband! I lowed den dat de ‘South- 
ern’ is fair as day, and I said, ‘Mister, John 
Marvin ain’t studying bout suing de road.’ Wid 
dat he drawed twelve dollars out uv his pocket 
and said, ‘Annie, dere’s twelve dollars fur yer 
first week’s pay fur nussing and I’ll settle all 
your month’s bills when dey are due.’ Well, us 
never is had no better time dan what we had 
dat day. I lowed as de railroad had done made 
a trained nurse out ev me I’d better dress like 
dem nusses at de hospital dresses, so I tuck my 
money and went out and bought me a gray- 
striped dress and a white apron and cap, and 
John lowed he didn’t much mind losing his foot 
ef it ware gwine bring us in all dis money. I 
forgot ter say I bought John er dozen cigars 
and I lowed I’d fling his old pipe erway, but he 
lowed he’d keep it and smoke de pipe while dere 
warn’t nobody but us dare and when anybody 


2 5 


come in he’d hide his pipe and light er cigar. 
We wuz setting dere talking and John wuz 
smoking his old pipe and lowing dat he was 
gwine ter ask de railroad ter get his new foot 
littler dan de one he had before. I told him I 
didn’t blame him case he’s got de most un- 
gawdly big foots you ever seed. Just den I 
looked out uv de window and I seed a white 
man coming in de gate. I told John and he hid 
his old pipe and lit a cigar and time he got it 
to puffing good I opened de door and de man 
come in, all dressed up in a long black coat and 
a high silk hat, and I lowed hit was another 
man de railroad had sent to bring us some more 
money. But when he took off his hat and bowed 
ter me and shook hands wid John and called 
him Mr. Marvin, I knowed something ware 
wrong. Miss Leila, you knows when a white 
man ups and calls a nigger Mr., something’s 
wrong. He set down and lowed, ‘My dear Mr. 
Marvin, I heerd of your pitiful accident and 
come all de way from Birmingham ter tell you 
how you could get even wid dat railroad.’ I 
lowed, ‘Us is already ahead, case dey done made 
me a trained nuss and done put John ter smok- 
ing fine cigars, and ‘Oh, yes,’ says he, ‘dey 

will promise ter make a trained nuss of you, but 
they won’t.’ I lowed, ‘Man, dey done already 


made me a trained nuss and paid me a week’s 
wages in advance; and dey ain’t treat John so 
pitiful case dey gwin ter give him a cork foot 
and he’ll be de onliest one in our church wid a 
cork foot.’ He lowed, ‘Mr. Marvin, ef you’ll 
send dis woman fum de room I’ll make you an 
offer dat will lay in de shade any offer de South- 
ern Railroad will make you.’ John low, ‘Annie, 
go in de other room and let de gentleman say 
what he wants ter say.’ I went in and shut de 
door, but I put my ear to de keyhole and heard 
de man say, ‘I represent a pussonal injury firm 
of lawyers in Birmingham and ef you will sign 
dis paper I can get you three thousand dollars 
from de Southern and you’ll have it all except 
our fee, which will be small.’ John leaned over 
and tuck de pen and wid dat I jumped through 
de door and lowed, ‘You give dat pen back to 
dat man and don’t you dast ter sign no paper 
dat you don’t know nothing erbout. Den de 
man low, ‘Send her fum de room, Mr. Marvin, 
she advises you wrong.’ John looked at me and 
he seed he done sent me fum de room his last 
time and he low kinder coaking like he gwine ter 
get three thousand dollars fer my foot. I said, 
‘Yes, Lord, like he got five thousand dollars when 
Sis Jane Clines’ husband was kilt and gin her a 
measly twenty-five dollars and said it tuck de 


27 


nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-five dollars 
ter fight de suit. De pussonal injury man low, 
‘Sign dis paper and I’ll do de rest and you be 
satisfied wid my work.’ I jumped up, I did 
.and lowed, ‘John Marvin, you is a born fool ef 
you signs dat paper.’ John lowed, ‘Well, I’m 
gwine ter sign it, and don’t you furgit it.’ I 
lowed, ‘No, I won’t furgit, case ef you signs dat 
paper I’se gwine ter quit you. I won’t live with 
no man what ain’t got sense to know when dey 
doing well, and how could us be doing any bet- 
ter dan we is. De railroad couldn’t do no better 
dan ter give you a lifetime job. But all I got 
ter say is dat you got ter choose right now twixt 
de pussonal injury man an me.’ Wid dat John 
gin de pen back and laid back on de bed and 
lowed, ‘I can’t sign it, Mister, case when Annie 
puts her foot down on a question she means 
what she says, and I can’t give her up even ter 
get three thousand dollars.’ Wid dat de pus- 
sonal injury man put on his hat and stamped 
out de door, but instead of calling John Mr. Mar- 
vin, he wuz mumbling ter himself something 
about a damned fool, and we ain’t seed him no 
more. But I’m still drawing twelve dollars a 
week and us is having all de fun looking over 
catalogues full ov pictures of cork foots and de 
only trouble I has is ter keep John from getting 


28 

his cork foot too little. He wears er number 11 
and he wants to get his cork foot a number 7 . 
But he says he always did want a foot like a 
white man, so I spect hit will end by John gettin 
his cork foot a number 7 ” 


THE VINDICATION OF 

VINEY 






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STORY III 


3 1 


The Vindication of Viney 

“I aint stole nothin. None er us fambly don't 
steal. Aint you purty near raise me, Miss Helen, 
an den ax me is I stole a green wais. I aint 
stole hit and I aint stole nuthin.” 

This unconditional denial of theft came from 
the lips of a small ebony-hued daughter of Afri- 
ca. Viney was quite a character in the house- 
hold where she was employed. Reverse of for- 
tune had left Mrs. Bradshaw little except a com- 
fortable home, and being responsible for the care 
of her three children she made a comfortable 
living by taking boarders. 

At the time of Viney’s stern denial some ten 
or eleven boarders gathered around the hospita- 
ble board where Mrs. Bradshaw could never 
bring herself to feel that they were other than 
invited guests and to be treated with the same 
courtesy. 

At her right hand in the seat of honor sat Miss 
Lee Alston, a bright cheery maiden lady, a little 
deaf, and somewhat peculiar but with all an ex- 
cellent woman. She had evidently seen better 
days and many of them to judge by the plentiful 
sprinkling of gray in the golden hair. To ap- 
preciate Miss Lee one must know her. She had 
been born and partly raised before the war. 


Though adversity had compelled her to earn her 
living by clerking in a store, she never lost sight 
of her Virginia ancestry. She shared one of the 
comfortable upstairs rooms with a maiden sister 
of Mrs. Bradshaw. These two had roomed to- 
gether for years, were inseparable, and usu- 
ally thought alike and valiantly fought each 
others battles, when not sparring at each other. 

Miss Lee had for several days complained that 
a green waist trimmed in gray was missing. The 
dress had seen service for several years and 
would in all probability never have been worn 
again by the owner, but when a very superficial 
search failed to unearth the waist, its usefulness 
and beauty grew apace. Mrs. Brawshaw sug- 
gested several places where it might possibly find 
a hiding place, but both ladies scorned the idea 
of anything being misplaced in their apartment, 
except by actual theft. Viney was the only “Cul- 
lud pusson” who ever went up stairs, consequent- 
ly she was immediately suspected. Miss Lee at 
supper and in the evenings was genial and so- 
cial and nothing so insignificent as the loss of a 
green waist disturbed her or interfered with her 
singing in a marvelously strong, well-trained 
voice old beautiful songs such as “Annie Laurie,” 
“Way Down Upon the Suwanee River,” “Take 
Back the Heart,” and “We’d Better Bide a Wee.” 


33 


But in the morning when she came down to 
breakfast with the gloomy prospect of a long 
hard day at the store in contrast with “what 
might have been” she was not so amiable and usu- 
ally had a grievance of some kind to pour into 
the patient ears of Mrs. Bradshaw. For several 
days the green waist trimmed in gray had done 
service as a bone of discontent and Mrs. Brad- 
shaw, while not exactly taking issue with her, 
had said what she could in vindication of Viney. 

On this particular morning, however, no argu- 
ment could avail and Miss Lee declared that she 
would get some man to speak to a policeman, 
saying: “I know just how it is with you. You 
are too tender hearted to find out about it. Hate- 
ful little thing, I’m going to have her arrested.” 
Just at this juncture Mr. Malvern, another ante- 
bellum personage of uncertain age, but very cer- 
tain kindness of heart, came in to breakfast. Of 
course his gallantry was aroused by the note of 
persecution in Miss Lee’s voice and he immedi- 
ately aligned himself on her side. It began to 
look ominous for the little colored girl and Mrs. 
Bradshaw determined to try to find out if possi- 
ble the truth from Viney and if she were guilty 
to have her confess the theft and throw herself on 
Miss Lee’s mercy. 

After breakfast she went to the kitchen and in 


34 


a very kindly manner broached the subject to 
Viney. The result was the lusty denial which 
might mean innocence or might be intended to 
cover her guilt. “Ef you know Miss Gertrude 
Caldwell, you ax her do I steal. She can’t tell you 
I ever stole fum her.” “Did you ever work for 
her, Viney?” “No’m, but my granmammy’s 
niece is her son’s caredge driver and my mammy’s 
step-gran-mammy used ter blong ter her uncle’s 
granpa. Does you see anything bout me looks 
lak a green waist trimmed in gray? I never is 
seed no green waist in Miss Lee’s and Miss Min- 
nie’s room. Dey getten too old to wear green, 
much less trimming it in gray. Lordy, look yon- 
der, yon go Miss Lee now goin down town and 
old Mr. Malvern walking long wid her. Don’t 
look lak dey studyin bout green waisteses 
trimmed in gray or blue yit.” 

The walk up town together, the first they had 
ever taken — which seemed so funny to Viney — 
boded no good in Mrs. Bradshaw’s opinion. Con- 
vincing herself, as nearly as possible that Viney 
was innocent, she decided to try once more to con- 
vince Miss Lee of her innocence, or if possible, 
divert her mind in some other channel. 

About the middle of the morning Mr. Malvern 
came to the house and sent for Mrs. Bradshaw 
to come to the parlor. She sought his presence. 


35 


eager to learn what had been determined upon. 
The policeman had told him he could do 
nothing in the matter unless Miss Lee would 
come to the police station and make formal 
charge against her, alleging the theft of the miss- 
ing garment. And then he added, drawing him- 
self up to his full height. “Of course that is 
out of the question, and I shall try to persuade 
her to let it go without any more ado.” Mrs. 
Bradshaw thought this advisable and was about 
to leave the room when he detained her by ask- 
ing if she had known Miss Lee long. Mrs. 
Bradshaw replied, “Years and years, ever since 
I was a little girl, and she is such a fine woman.” 
Looking up suddenly she surprised a look in his 
kindly old eyes that convinced her that his inter- 
est in Miss Lee was so lively that it must have 
antedated the waist episode. The matchmaking 
instinct, so strong in most women, had reached 
colossal proportions in Mrs. Bradshaw and be- 
lieving that there is no time like the present be- 
gan saying all the best things about Miss Lee. 
He listened with evident pleasure and when Mrs. 
Bradshaw left the room it was with the pleasing 
consciousness that she had helped the good work 
along. All morning Mr. Malvern went about 
with the air of a man on whom the fate of na- 
tions depended. At the noon meal Miss Lee 


36 

tried to seem as intent as ever on the recovery of 
the gray trimmed green waist but ever and anon 
the light of other days shone in her fine blue eyes, 
and round about her lips the smiles played hide 
and seek. At supper time she announced that she 
and Miss Minnie would attend a revival service 
being held at a small Baptist church in the neigh- 
borhood. Mr. Malvern looked up with a qiuck 
smile as though about to ask to accompany them, 
then a resigned look came over his face and he 
remembered something about its being lodge 
night. 

At the appointed time the two ladies left for 
church with no other escort than the young son of 
Mrs. Bradshaw. 

After they were gone and her duties were over, 
Mrs. Bradshaw hied her up stairs to institute a 
thorough search for the missing garment. On 
opening the closet she found the waist reposing 
peacefully on a shelf with other winter clothes 
which had been laid away from the moths. Seiz- 
ing the waist she ran down stairs and there was 
a general merry making over it. Mrs. St. Julian, 
a married sister of Mr. Malvern, suggested 
bringing out the whole dress and fixing up a 
dummy figure, dressing it in the green dress and 
having it ready as a surprise for Miss Lee and 
Miss Minnie. 



MAMIE HUNT SIMS 






37 


When the two maiden ladies came in some one 
told Miss Lee that Mrs. Cartwright, an old friend 
from the country, wished to see her in Mrs. St. 
Julian’s sitting room. Of course the whole 
household followed at a safe distance to see the 
fun. In her courteous “before the war” manner 
Miss Lee went forward and stooped to kiss her 
old friend, when lo, the face of the dummy met 
her gaze, then the gray trimmed green waist con- 
fronted her and as the joke dawned upon her 
she laughed good humoredly. The whole house- 
hold joined in the merry making and the vindica- 
tion of Viney was complete. 

In a little while it was noticed that both Miss 
Lee and Mr. Malvern had disappeared. One of 
the children coming in announced the fact that 
Miss Lee and Mr. Malvern were sitting by the 
piano “but Miss Lee isn’t playing a bit, just lis- 
tening to Mr. Malvern.” In less than an hour 
Mr. Malvern came in leading Miss Lee by the 
hand. They walked up to Mrs. Bradshaw and 
he announced their engagement and asked her 
blessing. Congratulations followed and mirth 
reigned supreme. 

The next morning when Viney came Mrs. 
Bradshaw told her of having found the missing 
garment and the happy ending of it all and add- 
ed, “And now, Viney, Miss Lee knows you didn’t 


3 « 

take the green basque and she won’t suspect you 
any more.” With a toss of her head Viney said, 
“No’m, she aint never spected me, she knowed 
dat waist warn’t gone, she jest done dat to make 
old Mr. Malvern sorry for her. Mammy say, 
dat de way wid white folks, if de kin git a white 
man right down sorry fur em, de’ll allays fall 
in love wid em. 




« 


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DE METER POND 





































STORY IV 


41 


De Meter Pond 

One Saturday morning little Helen told Roy 
that she wished him to accompany her to the 
postoffice and also to make a little visit to the 
Hall children on the way back home. Roy 
thought he preferred staying at home and sug- 
gested that she get an older sister to accompany 
her, but she confided to him through furtive 
tears that a beef was to be killed that day and 
that Uncle Jake had told her that he was to kill 
Mark, a beautiful yearling and a great pet of 
the children. “Of course you don’t want to see 
that and Uncle Jake has promised me to have 
it all over with by the time I get back/’ said 
she. The little boy, glad to get away from un- 
pleasantness of any kind, consented to go. 

The two children set out hand in hand and 
were soon happy in the delights of a spring 
morning in the South. They staid until nearly 
noon and coming in at the front door saw the 
family assembled on the back porch listening 
to Uncle Jake explain something in eloquent 
tones. “Marm, I knowed you’d be specting me 
ter bring dat beef up here and I’s pizen sorry 
I can’t fetch it. But you know how skittish 
dese here young cows is and time I shot dat 
yearling instead of fallin over dead like dey 


42 


generally does he tuck to his heels en lipt de 
fence and went splittin down de road and shed- 
ding uv blood at every step.” “O, mamma,” 
sobbed Helen, “let brother and me go with 
Uncle Jake to find him; he may be suffering.” 
“No’m, no’m, Mistis, don’t you let dem chillen 
go wid me ter dat Duckry pasture case de sight 
of fresh blood runs cows pretty near mad and 
dey’ll tromple dem chillen scanlous, maybe kill 
em both.” 

The little girl began to cry and Roy explained 
to his mother that he could take care of his sis- 
ter and they were quickly gotten ready for this 
errand of mercy, not without some misgivings 
on the part of the mother and with many admo- 
nitions to Uncle Jake to take good care of the 
children and be sure to put the poor animal out 
of its suffering in the quickest way possible. 
Uncle Jake went to saddle Paragon, Helen’s 
black pacer, for the children to ride and a mule 
for his own mount, and during his absence the 
children’s grandmother said, “Don’t cry so, 
Helen, Mark isn’t suffering. I have an idea 
that while Jake came here to tell this cock and 
bull story he sent Joe and Beauregard to drive 
the calf off to some of his neighbors where to- 
night they will slaughter it and barbecue the most 
of it to carry to the all-day meeting at their 


43 

church tomoriow.” Thus reassured and com- 
forted the children started out in better spirits. 
On gaining the door they were met with the 
astonishing news that, “ ’Taint nary creature in 
dat lot cept only Paragon.” “Well,” said Helen, 
“brother and I will ride a while and Uncle Jake 
walk and then we’ll walk while he rides.” The 
old man shook his head with an air of resigna- 
tion and said, “Miss Helen, if twarent fur you 
Mr. Roy wouldn’t be studyin’ bout gwine.” The 
procession finally started and for more than a 
mile they pursued their way to the Duckry pas- 
ture. Looking intently on the ground for a 
short distance, the old man said, “I see from de 
tracks Mark ain’t been down here.” “Why, 
Uncle Jake, you said you saw him come to the 
Duckry pasture,” said Helen. “Now, Mr. Roy, 
I kin prove it by you dat I ain’t pintedly said I 
seed him come ter de Duckry pasture. I said I 
seed him headin dis way.” They were obliged 
to confess that those were about his words, albeit 
they had been uttered with such an air of con- 
viction that there had been left little room to 
doubt. “Then,” said Roy, in his matter-of-fact 
way, “if he didn’t come here, where did he go?” 
The old man sat down under a tree to rest and 
assumed an air of perplexed thought. Then an 
inspiration came to him and he said, “I know 


44 


where he gone and I mout er knowed it at de 
first. He gone plumb down ter de Brudger 
swamp.” “Why, Uncle Jake, why don’t you 
think he has gone to our own pasture?” “Case, 
chillen, I’ll tell you fur why, he was hurt so 
bad, dat yearlin was, dat he didn’t had sense 
enough ter know whar he wanted ter go. But 
you all get off dat horse and walk back home and 
I’ll get on de horse and ride down ter de Budger 
swamp an put dat po critter outen his misery, 
ef he ain’t already done died, which I know in 
reason he done time he got dere.” 

The children were not be thwarted from their 
purpose and after many arguments the cavalcade 
started for the Budger swamp some four miles 
away. After journeying two miles or more of 
the way the old man again halted, while he rode 
the horse and the children walked. “Lord, chil- 
len, I know whar dat yearlin gone ; he gone 
straight ter de meter pond.” The palmetto pond 
— a thing of beauty but damp and boggy — lay 
between them and a corner of their own pas- 
ture. Both the children agreed joyfully to go- 
ing there, but the old man said, “No, no, you 
can’t go, but I’se gwine get off en dis horse and 
put you all up on her and den I’m gwine pintedly 
send you all back home ter yer ma, case she’ll be 
oneasy about you and den I know you all is 


45 


hongry ennyhow.” “No, siree,” said little Helen, 
“we are going with you till we find Mark.” But 
he shook his head and dismounting led Paragon 
to a fallen log and helped the children mount. 
“Now,” said he, in his most emphatic tones, 
“you all hatter go back case you can’t ride 
through de meter pond, you can’t, you can’t.” 
“Well,” argued Roy, “we’ll walk through.” 
“But,” the old man persisted, “you can’t walk 
through the meter pond; you can’t, you can’t.” 
Both the children declared that in that case they 
would ride around the pond. “You can’t ride 
round hit, chillen, case de underbrush is so thick 
hit’ll all scrape you offen dat horse.” Helen and 
Roy laughed at the idea of the underbrush un- 
seating them when Paragon was so gentle; she 
would stop at a moment’s notice. As they neared 
the “meter pond” in their eagerness to watch 
out for Mark they grew careless of the over- 
hanging boughs, and pretty soon a limb from a 
white oak scraped them both off and piled them 
in a heap at Paragon’s heels. The faithful ani- 
mal stopped instantly and the children sprang 
to their feet unhurt. Uncle Jake, in a tone of 
triumph, said, “Now, den, hit’s a God’s mercy 
you chillun weren’t trompled to death en I 
reckon you all go back now, won’t you?” They 
again refused and leading the horse they fol- 


lowed Uncle Jake through the meter pond with 
very little discomfort. “Uncle Jake,” said 
Helen, “I thought you couldn’t walk through 
the meter pond?” The old man, with more irri- 
tation than he usually showed where the chil- 
dren were concerned, said, “I want ter ax you, is 
you walked through the meter pond yit and us 
gets bout ter de middle and all on de sides is 
full er snakes and I looks for one or both uv 
you chillen ter git bit by an whoppin big snake 
fore us gets ten steps furder.” “What sort of 
snakes,” asked Roy, “poisonous ones, Uncle 
Jake?” “Pizenous! Lord, Lord, dey sho is pizen- 
ous, ef you call rattlesnakes and high land mocca- 
sins en coach whups pizenous.” The children in- 
sisted on a continuance of the journey and finally 
emerged from the meter pond to find Mark graz- 
ing peacefully with the other cattle and with a 
rope wound around his short horn. Both the chil- 
dren ran to him to look him over and found that 
he bore not a scratch, and Roy said, “How did he 
come here, Uncle Jake?” “Why, he corned on his 
foots, dat’s how, he come arter I shot him he 
corned here.” “But,” persisted the boy, “he 
hasn’t been shot.” “Den, Roy, I must er missed 
him same like you miss bout half de squirrels 
en birds you shoots at.” “But, Uncle Jake,” 
said Helen, “how could you say he was bleed- 


47 


in g at every step when he hasn’t any blood about 
him?” The old man scratched his forehead and 
took another chew of tobacco in his mouth as 
he said, “Dat sho do look strange, but ef you 
all won’t rush dem questions at me so fast I 
can splain it all erway. Marse Andy Jackson 
alius did say he bleeved I’d go blind when I got 
old, an Aunt Daffney lowed, she did, dat dere 
wus blood on de moon when I wus born en ez 
I git older I’d begin ter see things look bloody 
when twarn’t no blood dere.” This explana- 
tion satisfied the children and they unwound the 
rope from Mark’s horns and led him home to 
their anxious mother and grandmother. Their 
cup of happiness almost ran over when their 
mother told them that as a reward for their per- 
severance they should have Mark to drive to their 
little cart and he shouldn’t be killed, ever. 







THE GHOST WALKS 


i 


4 















STORY V 


5 1 


The Ghost Walks 

“Chillun,” said Uncle Jake, “is I ever told 
you a ghost story?” “Well,” said Helen, “you 
told us about your Marse Johnny’s house- 
party and the ghost that came there.” “Lord, 
Lord, I axes you, does you endignify dat little 
nanydote wid de name of ghost story? Ef you 
does, jest listen whiles I tells you dis one and 
you will say you never is heerd tell of a ghost 
story. 

“Bout some several weeks ago I was riding 
along one night talking to Black Jack ’bout 
all his little cussed ways, such as picking chick- 
ens off de roost and other little things dat ain’t 
zactly sins, and still white folks objects to them. 
Jest den us mules give a jump, dey did, and 
started off in a lope. Us wuz so scared us 
didn’t know what to do, and us looked around 
and dere settin on a milk-white horse was some- 
thing er other dressed in shining white robes 
and wid a crown on its head. We rid faster 
and de ghost rid faster, and us was skeered to 
death, pretty nigh, case us knowed us wuz pretty 
near de Bridges swamp, and hit would be so 
damp that de spirits could do anything wid us 
dat dey wanted to. You know, Master Roy, 
how dark dat swamp was de night you wuz 


looking for Paragon, when us thought she was 
lost, and us found out Black Jack rid her off.” 
The little boy remembered it with a shudder, 
and Uncle Jake continued: “Well, dat night 
wuz bright as day by de side of dis one, hit 
wuz so dark dat you could er scraped de dark- 
ness off wid a drawin knife er chopped hit off 
wid a foot adz. By de time us was skeered to 
death de ghost laid holt of us hosses and gen- 
tlemens, whilst me and Black Jack was trem- 
bling so us teeth wuz chatterin (least ways 
Jack’s wuz, and I had stuffed my handkercher 
in my mouf to keep mine fum chatterin), dat 
ghost gin us er talk dat beat de beater. O, 
Lord, I wish you chillun could have heerd 
what dat sperrit said. Ise heerd talks and talks 
in my times, but dat was de most expoundin 
zamification I ever is heerd.” “What did the 
ghost say?” asked Roy. “Did he scold Black 
Jack for stealing the yellow hen and the pig 
and the other things?” “Well,” said Uncle 
Jake, “I kin sooner tell you what dat ghost 
didn’t say. But howsomever, it spounded de rea- 
son why hit ain’t no harm for a nigger ter take 
a few of de white folks’ thing. Hit said 
white folks have so much dat de Lord expects 
um ter divide wid cullud folks what ain’t got 
so much. Den I up and axed him ‘Did a few 


53 


hens and a yearling er two and maybe a pig 
or two count?’ and he laughed one of dese here 
long, screechy laughs, and said, ‘Not in de least.’ 
Den I up and told him about de yellow hen and 
a few of de white folks pigs Black Jack had 
ticed off, and den I told him bout my stretchin 
de truth a little ter get er little measly quart of 
whiskey when I were as dry ez er chip. I asked 
him do them things count? Chillun dat ghost 
laughed de most ungawdly laugh you ever heerd 
and said dat dem things warent counted in 
Heaven and dat de lady angels don’t ever men- 
tion it when dey has dey sewin society. Den 
he went on to low dat dem things wuz all right, 
dat hits expected dat dem dat has must give ter 
dem dat hain’t, and ef dey fergits ter divide den 
dem dat hain’t must help deyselves ter what 
dey want. But it lowed it saves trouble to slip 
round and get hit when hit’s dark. And he 
pintedly said ef we knowed any rich white folks 
what wuz too stingy ter divide ef we would tell 
der names dat it would hant dere homes night- 
ly.” “Oh, Uncle Jake,” sobbed Helen, “did you 
tell him we were stingy?” “No, Lord, I didn’t; 
I told him you all were about the free heartedest 
chillun I ever is seed, and I just fotch my bucket 
erlong case I knowed Miss Helen were gwine 
ter give me some good vittels, and Mr. Roy 
wuz gwine get me some two or three cigars for 
ter smoke.” 





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BLACK JACK AND THE 
YELLOW HEN 






STORY VI 


57 


Black Jack and the Yellow Hen 

Not long after Helen and Roy had unearthed 
Mark and led him home in triumph, they went 
over to spend the day with the Halls, a family 
in the neighborhood of whom the children were 
specially fond. They had played base, high spy, 
chicky-my craney-crow and marbles till late in 
the afternoon. Tired out, they were sitting on 
the steps waiting for their uncle to come by for 
them in the buggy. Mrs. Hall came out to feed 
the chickens and put them up for the night. 
While this interesting performance was going 
on, Helen gave a start and whispered to Roy, 
“O, brother, there’s the yellow hen that has been 
missing since Monday.” Roy gave her a pinch 
which meant silence but the little girl had no 
idea of leaving without finding out about the hen. 
She left the steps and joined Mrs. Hall where 
the baby chickens crowded around her feet eat- 
ing the “dough” from the pan she held in her 
hand, while the mother hens clucked and fumed 
as they do, in their anxiety to get the chickens 
in their own coops. Mrs. Hall pointed out the 
size and beauty of certain broods of chickens 
but Helen’s eyes were fixed on the yellow hen. 
Noticing it Mrs. Hall said, “Isn’t that a pretty 
hen? I bought it Monday night from such a 


58 

good old colored man.” Instantly Helen’s heart 
sank. Was Uncle Jake to be caught red-handed 
in another theft before the month was out? 
“Was the man low and gray-haired, Mrs. Hall?” 
she asked. “No, dear, he was tall and thin and 
very black.” A sigh of relief, and Helen said, 
“O, that was Black Jack.” “Why, Helen, do you 
know anything about the hen?” “Yes, ma’am, she 
belongs to us. When she was a tweenty ween- 
ty little chicken she got hurt and grandmother 
said if brother and I would be good to her and 
get her well she could be ours. I fed her and 
brother set her leg where it was broken and she 
got well.” Mrs. Hall at once caught the hen and 
put it in a basket and wanted the children to 
take it home with them but Roy thought as she 
had paid for it, it belonged to her and so refused 
to take it. As soon as they were in the buggy 
on the way home, Helen told her uncle about it. 
He laughed heartily and told Helen if she un- 
earthed any more thefts he would send her to 
join the Pinkerton Detective force. 

Pretty soon after they reached home Black Jack 
came up with an arm full of pine knots for “ole 
Miss,” as he called the children’s grandmother. 
He was accused of the theft of the chicken but 
denied it bitterly. But just them a boy brought 
the hen in sent as present by Mrs. Hall. With 


59 


the quickness and cunning of the race he said, 
“O, yes I members now, dat hen was eatin up 
all de corn fum de hosses and I knowed twarn't 
no use to ask dem children to let he be kilt so I 
thought de easiest way would be jest ter take her 
clean off de place and sell her. Dem chillen 
wastes too much time foolin with dat hen enny 
how. Dem chillen ought to be kep in strict con- 
finnance ter der books. Fust thing you know 
dey’ll be grown here and won't be graduwated; 
but I am in a hurry, I just come up here to 
fetch ole Miss some pine and tell you all how fine 
my crap is. An here's dat quarter, I wish you'd 
please send it back to Mrs. Hall, case she might 
think I aimed to stole her hen." 

With that he went to his cabin, nothing daunted 
by so slight a thing as the theft of a chicken. 
The next morning Roy and Helen were in the 
garden where Uncle Jake was weeding a bed of 
lettuce. They told him the whole story of how 
Jack had stolen the hen and sold it and omit- 
ted no detail, even telling how Jack produced 
the quarter which he sent back to Mrs. Hall. 
The old men listened without apparent interest 
in the story until the last incident. Then he 
looked up quickly, “And so Jack had to gib up 
dat quarter, did he?" he asked. “Why yes, Un- 
cle Jake," said Helen, “of course he did. The 


6o 


quarter didn’t belong to him, did it?” The old 
man mused for awhile and then said, “And dis 
is what you call fredom. I don’t call it free- 
dom when you has to give up a quarter arter you 
had to cotch a hen and den walk a mile to sell it. 
“Chillun, dat’s de difference twixt slavery and 
what folks call freedom. Ef it had been slav- 
ery time he might have been found out and pun- 
ished, but he sho wouldn’t have had to give up 
dat quarter. I bet my eyes outen my head, dat 
Jack wisht right then he could have been back 
in slavery and kept dat quarter. Jack has done 
worse things in slavery time den lifting a pes- 
ticating ole hen offen de roost and never got 
cotched up. Is I ever told you all about the time 
Jack killed his marster’s horse?” No, they had 
never heard it. 

“Den I haint tole you de best story I ever 
did nowe.” “O, please tell us, Uncle Jake,” asked 
both children. The old man shook his head with 
a wary look that always meant gain of some 
kind and said, “Some day I’ll tell you, but not 
now, while I am so hongry.” “O, Uncle Jake,” 
said Helen, “I’ll go and bring you a tin bucket 
full of things to eat if you tell.” The little girl 
ran into the pantry and presently returned with 
a goodly store. The old man took the bucket 
and looked in to see biscuits, cold ham, corn 


6i 


bread, tea cakes and cold pie. “Tell it now,” 
said Roy. 

“No, no I made a mistake, when I pintedly 
said I was hongry. I aint to say hongry so I 
am gwine ter tek deses here victuals home to 
Barbara and the chillen, but I jest naturally 
wants a chaw of tobacco so bad I can fairly 
taste it.” “O, well,” said Roy, “I can get you a 
piece of tobacco as big as my hand.” The little 
boy ran in the house and soon returned with a 
piece of plug tobacco which was kept in the 
store-room for the wages hands. “Well, disTl do. 
And it jest soots me to set down in the shade 
of dis umbrelly chiny tree.” After the old man 
had made himself comfortable he began his 
story. 

“Well, arter Marse Andy Jackson died, Miss 
Lucy Molton she fell heir to me and I come here 
to Alabama to live. At dat time Jack he were 
quite grown and he show did love to frolic. 
There warn’t' no frolic fum Goose Creek to 
Shilo dat dat nigger didn’t go to. He could 
dance all night and den be as spry as a cricket 
next day. Well, one night all de boys and some 
of de gals was gwine to steal off and go to a 
dance at Marse Ezra Brown’s quarter. De rea- 
son us had to steal off was case us white folks 
didn’t neighbor wid de Browns and dey didn’t 


62 


want us to sociate with dere niggers. Us all was 
going to put us foot in de road and walk but 
Jack he laughed, he was going to ride Marse 
Johnny’s fine Kentucky hoss. Well, Marse 
Johnny warn’t none too sober hisself when he 
got home and his hoss had been rid till he was 
tired. Jack he waited till Marse Johnny was in 
bed and then he took and slipped dat blooded hoss 
out, lipped up on him barebacked, and tuck Dolly 
what he was courtin up behind him and lit ought 
for the Brown quarters. Well, law, de fun us had 
dat night is way back in slavery time and don’t 
come no mo since freedom. Us would have 
danced till daylight but us had to get back home 
fore de horn blowed to get up. Time I get 
down to the dessimon heerd Jack calling, 'Uncle 
Jake, Uncle Levi, Uncle Andrew, Bob, and de 
Lord knows who. Us went back us did, and 
dere was Dolly and dere was Jack, but Gawd 
help him dere was Marse Johnny’s black hoss 
done dead. Andrew he laughed, ‘Now you 
gwine to cotch it,’ and Bob he laughed, ‘I tole 
you not to ride that hoss.’ All dis time Jack was 
unhitching the bridle from the tree, den he took 
and got down on the ground and put his shoulder 
to the hoss and low, ‘Bob roll him over on my 
shoulder.’ Bob low, ‘What you gwine do, 
Jack ?’ He low, ‘I am going to tote this hoss 


home and git him in the stable/ Bob low, 
‘You can’t tote dat hoss home/ Jack laughed, 
‘Nigger, don’t you tell me I can’t tote this hoss 
home, I bleeged to tote him home.’ ” “Did he 
tote him home, Uncle Jake?” asked Helen. “No 
Lord, he didn’t tote him home, but I tell you what 
us done. Us got some of the Brown niggers to 
hitch up a wagon and us all got round and 
lifted dat hoss onto de wagon and us driv home 
and put him in de stable and locked it up. And 
us sneaked in us houses fore daylight.” “But, 
Uncle Jake,” said Roy, “what happened when 
your Marse Johnny got up?” “Well, when Marse 
came out to de barn it was jest gettin light and 
Marse Johnny he had turn over in the bed to git 
his second nap. Us was feeding the mules but us 
had none of us been to the stalls where the 
hosses stands. I took a dozen years of corn and 
started in thar. When I got in there I low, 
‘Cricket, I never found you layin down in de 
mornin before.’ Marster he laughed, ‘It’ll sprise 
me ef you don’t cotch him dead sometime de 
way your Marse Johnny rides him/ I says, 
‘Fore Gawd, Marster, he done dead now/ Mars- 
ter come in the stall and look at him and low, 
‘Dar goes $800.00 of my good money/ And den 
low, ‘Jack, you go wake dat young cuss up and 
tell him to come here, I gwine to lay de law 


6 4 


down to dat boy. I learn him to ride a good 
hoss to death/ Jack run on, he did, and Marster 
turned and square his shoulders and us know 
Marse Johnny was gwine to ketch one of the 
Dutch talkings to. Time Marse Johnny came 
in the lot, Master low, ‘Dis last act of yourn is 
de straw what breaks the camel’s back. I am 
going to send you off to school, you young ras- 
cal/ And he was just whetting up his tongue 
to say more when he looked in . the stable and 
dar was Marse Johnny down on his knees cry- 
ing over dat hoss. With dat Master went to 
him and low, ‘Don’t take it so hard, my boy, go 
in and tell your mamma about it, she’ll know 
what to say to you, and I’ll buy you another 
hoss/ ” 

“But, Uncle Jake,” said Helen, “didn’t Black 
Jack feel sorry when he saw his Marse Johnny 
crying?” “Yes, all on us was sorry de hoss was 
dead, but Jack was glad he wan’t scused of killing 
him and den he wan’t so sorry nuther, cause 
when Marse Johnny went off to school he took 
Jack with him and Jack low they had all de fun.” 


UNCLE JAKE GETS 

A DRAM 









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STORY VII 


67 


Uncle Jake gets a Dram 

One morning as Helen and Roy were playing 
croquet they saw Uncle Jake riding in great 
haste toward the back gate. He quickly dis- 
mounted and came to the steps of the porch 
where the family were sitting and said, “Barbara 
is mighty sick, she mighty nigh dead and I 
wouldn’t be sprised ef she ain’t dead by now.” 
“O,” said Helen, (who with Roy had come to 
learn the cause of Uncle Jake’s perturbation) 
“Mama, let brother and me go to see her before 
she dies.” Their mother said, “Wait a moment,” 
and to Uncle Jake she said, “Go right over to the 
doctor and ask him to go at once to see Barbara.” 
“Yassum, but I wants ter tell you that when Bar- 
bara dies I’se gwine ter move up in de quarters 
so I can be here handy when you needs any 
body ter go atter de doctor at night. Yassum I 
spects to end my days right dere.” “But Jake,” 
said the lady, “go on for the doctor, he may 
be able to save her even yet.” “N’om, n’om,” 
said the old man, “nothin can’t save her, she’s 
bound fer de promised land but I think ef I had 
er quart of good whiskey I could give her enough 
ter make her die easy.” The whiskey was quickly 
given him and he started home at a swinging 
gallop, followed quickly by Helen and Roy rid- 


68 


in g Paragon. The fleet horse soon outran the 
mule and when the children reached the com- 
fortable double log cabin Aunt Barbara was out 
under a shade tree ironing “de white folks” 
clothes, scolding Beauregard to make him keep 
up the log fire upon which she heated her iron 
and in a rich full voice sang snatches of camp- 
meeting songs. “O, Aunt Barbara,” said Helen, 
“do you feel better? We were so afraid you 
would be dead when we got here and brother 
and I were so sorry and we were going to put 
flowers on your grave.” “Bless your little hearts, 
chillun, you’s most ez good ez angels but I ain’t 
been sick.” “Why,” said Roy, “Uncle Jake said 
you would be dead by the time he got home and 
he’s coming on now with a quart of whiskey 
mama gave him to save your life.” “O, yes, dat 
de way he’s plowing, is it? Beauregard, you go 
down dare to dat ten-acre lot and tell your daddy 
I done heerd bout his gwine up dare telling lies 
bout my being sick and tell him he better send 
me dat whiskey, en ef he don’t I’m gwine ter 
come down dere arter him.” 

Pretty soon Beauregard returned with the bot- 
tle but most of the whiskey had vanished. 
“Well,” said Aunt Barbara, “sence I come ter 
think of it, I don’t ter say feel right well case 
I got misery in my head and a quare feeling 


6 9 

round my heart so I’ll just make me a little 
toddy and drink it an den I’ll feel like gwine on 
wid my work.” 




THE GRAVEYARD 
RABBIT 














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STORY VIII 


73 


The Graveyard Rabbit 

One morning in April of the year following 
the vindication of Viney, Mrs. Bradshaw found 
her in the kitchen with her pocket turned wrong 
side out, a pin in her mouth and trying to heat 
the shovel “red hot.” “Why, Viney,” she said, 
“what is the matter?” “Lord, Miss Helen, sum- 
pin gwine ter happen quick an sho and hit ain’t 
gwine ter be nuthin good nuther.” “Why do 
you think so, Viney?” “Well, Miss Helen, you 
know us lives out on de aidge of town and dis 
mornin when I got up soon so I could get ter 
my work in time a scrooch owl was er hollerin 
his best, and I say, ‘Dar now, sumpin gwine drap, 
an den what should up an happen but er whip- 
po’-will hollered three times an stop. Yessum, 
he sho did, three times, Miss Helen.” “Why not 
three times as well as more, Viney, or less than 
three ?”. “Aw, Miss Helen, ain’t you knowed dat 
hits de wuss kind er luck fer er whip-poor-will 
to holler three times and stop ! You ain’t 
knowed it, Miss Helen, and you white an a 
grown woman? Why, I knowed dat ever since 
I was knee high ter er duck. But hit beats de 
world how white folks can call dereselves eddi- 
cated and book larnt and don’t know nuthin t’all 
erbout signs. But here I is solumquizing bout 


74 


white folks’ ignance and ain’t told you about de 
sign what capped it all. Dis las sign is so skeery. 
I hates ter talk erbout it, but I gwine tell it all. 
Ez I come erlong er graveyard rabbit tuck and 
run across my path. I was so skeered I lip up 
in de air an hollered loud ez I could an den I 
put dis pin in de left han corner uv my mouf. 
When de scrooch owl hollered I turned my 
pocket wrong side out and now I’m gwine ter 
keep de shovel red hot all day.”. Mrs. Bradshaw 
smiled and realizing that Ephraim is joined to his 
idols did not attempt to shake Viney’s faith in 
the superstition that had been handed down 
from savage ancestry. She told Mrs. St. Julian 
of the evil omens scattered along Viney’s path 
that morning and they both laughed knowing that 
whatever accident happened to any of the house- 
hold for a year Viney would say, “I tole you so. 
Miss Helen.” Everything passed off pleasantly 
throughout the day, but at supper time Mrs. 
Bradshaw noticed that a young man, a recent 
addition to the household, looked unhappy. He 
was a dear boy of nineteen, a native of Ten- 
nessee, and he and Mrs. Bradshaw had many 
friends in common, she having spent the pre- 
vious summer in the mountains of that state. 
To the lady there had been a look of impending 
trouble in the boy’s face and a touch of pathos 


75 


about the almost girlish mouth appealed to her 
strongly. After supper Mrs. St. Julian asked 
her to come in and listen to some music, but 
to Mrs. Bradshaw’s mind Little Willie, as one 
of the young men had styled the newcomer, 
needed cheering up. Leaving the group at the 
piano, she walked out on the front porch to see 
if she could find him. As she mentally said, 
she must get in some mother-work, and get it 
in quickly. The door to the boy’s room opened 
on the porch and was wide open. Mrs. Brad- 
shaw was shocked by what she saw. Before a 
desk on which was spread writing material sat 
Little Willie, the picture of despair. His chin 
resting on his breast and his eyes staring into 
vacancy with a look that could mean nothing 
less than contemplated suicide. She looked long 
and earnestly and felt sure she saw, as she 
termed it, the Ala River in his eyes. The night 
was balmy, one of those soft moonlight nights 
in the South that seem tense with the glory of 
early Spring. Calling his name softly she saw 
him pull himself together with a visible effort and 
slowly he looked into her eyes. Mrs. Brad- 
shaw, full of nervous dread that she could 
hardly define, exerted her strongest will power 
to keep from him the knowledge that by some 
strange occult power she divined his thoughts. 


7 6 

They stood by the carved banister that sur- 
rounded the wide porch, and in a voice vibrant 
with deep feeling, she said : — 

“Oh I want to go back to the old home, 
Though I know they have gone away, 

Who lived and loved in the old time, 

But were I there to-day, 

I could dream them back to the fireside, 

I could see my mother’s face 
And forget my homesick longing 

In the peace of the dear home place.” 

At first the boy seemed impatient but before 
many lines were said his eyes were moist, and 
when she had finished he looked at her through 
unshed tears. Not seeming to notice his emo- 
tion she began to talk of her childhood home 
and of the gentle mother who, though long 
since had entered into rest, lived still in the 
hearts of her children. She told of her brother 
far away from the home of his childhood who 
still clung to the teachings of his mother. Then 
she spoke to Willie of his mother; asked a few 
questions and drew him on irresistibly to talk 
of her. Several times she heard Mrs. St. Julian 
call her and once her own little boy came out and 
stood by her, his golden head just reaching the 
top of the banister, but she talked on as one 


77 


inspired. Gradually a change came over Little 
Willie and when he had, as it were, passed from 
the shadow of suicide into the determination to 
live and grapple with his difficulties, she felt it 
as strongly as she had his other mental atti- 
tude. As she told him good night, Little Willie 
said, “You may never know till the judgment 
how much your words have helped me, but in 
the name and for the sake of my mother, I thank 
you.” A few minutes later when Mrs. St. Julian 
asked Mrs. Bradshaw why she did not come in 
for the music she said, “I saw the Ala River in 
Little Willie’s eyes and have been talking it out.” 
Mrs. St. Julian laughingly said, “O, I know what 
is the trouble. Viney’s scrooch owl, whip-poor- 
will and graveyard rabbit have gotten on your 
nerves and you imagine it.” Mrs. Bradshaw 
smiled, but when she gathered her little ones 
around her for the family prayers she thanked 
God that He had made her the instrument of 
good to the boy. 

When Viney came next morning her first ques- 
tion was: “Is anything out uv de way hap- 
pened while I wuz home, Miss Helen?” Mrs. 
Bradshaw was about to say no when her experi- 
ence with Little Willie and the river came to 
mind, and she said, “Yes, Viney, something un- 
usual occurred but nothing that I can tell you.” 


“Yassum,” said Viney, “l don’t so perticular 
want ter know what it wuz, but don’t you think 
you ought ter give me er little present ter sorter 
even up an show dat you is willin ter pay fer all 
de warnings dat I is good enough ter give you ?” 
To Mrs. Bradshaw’s anxious eyes the look of 
desperation on Little Willie’s face had given 
place to one of seriousness and indecision. A 
few days after the talk on the porch a young 
brother of Mrs. St. Julian told her that he had 
decided to enter business in Mobile; had good 
prospects and had persuaded Little Willie to 
accept a position with him and they would leave 
at once. After the young men had been gone 
about ten days Mrs. St. Julian received a letter 
from her brother saying, “Little Willie left to- 
day for D to marry the girl about whom 

he had been in trouble. He says he never could 
have taken this step in his own strength and 
had determined to end his life and had selected 
the spot on the Ala River where he would drown 
himself, but just as he was writing a letter of 
farewell to his mother Mrs. Bradshaw called 
him out on the porch and there in the moonlight 
she talked of home and mother in such a way 
that suicide was quite impossible. So through 
Mrs. Bradshaw’s influence he had gone to make 
reparation to the girl by marrying her.” 


AN HONEST MAN 




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story ix 


8 i 


An Honest Man 

It was back in the 80’s. I was cashier for the 
Hast Tennessee, Virginia & Georgia Railroad 
Company. The train had pulled into the station 
at Selma and while the passengers were alighting 
one of those unaccountable accidents happened. 
The train gave a convulsive jump and a passen- 
ger, Mr. Young, was thrown down in such a 
manner that his spine was injured. He was car- 
ried to his home where he lived with his three 
good sisters. He was critically ill for a month 
and we heard nothing of any damage suit but 
supposed that they were waiting to find the real 
extent of the injuries. After a couple of weeks 
of convalescence, during which we heard noth- 
ing, the superintendent told me to write a polite 
and cordial note asking him to call at my office 
looking towards an adjustment. The superin- 
tendent said, “This thing must be settled out of 
court, if possible. Try to compromise on three 
thousand. Don’t cayil too long on five thousand, 
but if he won’t take five thousand we’ll have to 
fight it out, I presume.” The next day Mr. 
Young walked into my office and asked what was 
wanted. I began with my cut-and-dried speech. 
We wished to consult about the slight accident 
at the train a short time since. Of course we 


8l 


were willing to do anything in reason and we 
feel sure that you will be amenable to reason. 
The good man tried to straighten himself up but 
a pain from the still weak back warned him that 
not yet could he assume the erect carriage which 
has hitherto been his. 

Before he could speak, I said, “Mr. Young, 
you can tell us the amount you will contend for 
and if it is reasonable we will settle here and 
now.” “Why,” said he, “I won’t contend for any- 
thing, but if you are perfectly willing you may pay 
the doctor’s bill, which is eighty-seven dollars.” 
Had Heaven suddenly opened its doors and lent 
to the earth one of its saints ? I looked again, and 
there in flesh and blood sat a man who with a 
strong case against the railroad company for at 
least five thousand dollars was offering to com- 
promise on eighty-seven dollars. A man, too, of 
broad intelligence and fine position. As soon 
as I could recover myself I thanked him but told 
him we would not think of letting him pay any of 
his expenses and wrote out a check for one thou- 
sand dollars. He accepted it under protest and 
feared that he was doing wrong to accept it as he 
said it was purely accidental. 






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ROSSELUS 


















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STORY X 


85 


Rosullus 

Mrs. Grey, a resident of San Antom, asked 
her colored washwoman to get her a man who 
could mow the lawn, look after flowers and 
make himself generally useful. “La ! Miss Ruth, 
I wish ter Gawd you’d give Rosellus a trial. 
He my son, but I’m gwine tell yer de trufe bout 
dat nigger. He jest naturally ain’t worth de 
powder and lead hit would take ter kill im but 
I hav ter support him an ef you’ll take him on 
trial I’ll try ter keep him in strict confinnance 
ter his duty bound business.” “Well,” said the 
lady, “I would rather have more promising help, 
but to oblige you, Aunt Laura, I’ll give him an 
opportunity to prove his ability.” “Yassum, 
Miss Ruth, he ain’t ter say got no ability cept 
fer hunting jack rabbits and ketchin fish.” Fore- 
warned is forearmed, and so Mrs. Grey was not 
surprised when after two days’ absence Rosel- 
lus reported that he had “de misery in his head.” 
Mrs. Grey knew better, as the cook had told her 
privately that Rosellus’ uncle had come in from 
the country on horseback and that Rosellus was 
riding his horse about town, taking care to keep 
away from the house and Mr. Grey’s office. He 
came limping up with one eye bandaged and 
said, “Miss Ruth, is my work been missing me 


86 


from round here?” “No,” said the lady, “I 
hired a man yesterday, but why didn't you 
come?” “Miss Ruth,” said he, “I been sick. I 
shore is been sick and ef any nigger tole you I 
was riding round town he sho told a story on 
me.” “O, yes, Rosellus,” said the lady, “Mr. 
Grey felt sure you must be ill so he has some 
medicine to give you now.” Just then Mr. Grey 
came out with a cupful of strong looking, loud 
smelling concoction and in a very solemn man- 
ner offered it to Rosellus. The boy began back- 
ing off and making excuses for not taking it, but 
Mr. Grey followed closely and succeeded in 
pouring it down him. It was a harmless but 
very nauseous dose and Rosellus forgot to limp 
and soon lost the bandage from his eye. He 
became very steady and industrious and came 
regularly for about ten days and then missed 
one day. The next morning when he appeared 
Mrs. Grey said, “Well, Rosellus, we supposed 
you were sick yesterday, so Mr. Grey is pre- 
paring some medicine for you.” “No’m, Miss 
Ruth, I warn’t sick, but mamma was sick and 
I had ter stay home ter cook for papa and milk 
de cow and ten der de chillun and go arter de 

doctor an get mamma some medicine, and 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Grey, “you were busy and if 
you had all that to do I don’t blame you for 


staying away.” Just then Mr. Grey came out 
with the medicine and in spite of Rosellus’ pro- 
tests, poured the medicine down him. Things 
moved quietly along for two months ; in the 
meantime Rosellus seemed to be growing quite 
steady and capable. Then one fine morning he 
failed to show up and Mrs. Grey supposed some 
relatives had come to visit them. A few days 
later his mother came to the house and said, 
“Miss Ruth, is you gwine be prepared to hear 
de news I got ter tell you bout Rosellus?” 
“Well,” said the lady, “I hardly think I’ll be 
surprised at anything he does.” “Well, ma’am, 
tother day when he tole you that lawn mower 
was dull and hatter be sharpened and lowed hit 
needed some other fixments which in all would 
cost a dollar and you gib it to him, what you 
think he done? He brung dat lawn mower to 
my house and lef it under de bed and tuk and let 
a dollar of mine take up with him and runned 
away with Brer George and Sis Lizzie Brown’s 
gal Cindy and got married. De license cost er 
dollar and a half and dey had fifty cents ter buy 
um some dinner and dey went to my brother’s out 
in de country and staid till dis morning an den 
dey happen up at my house.” “Well,” said Mrs. 
Grey, “are you going to forgive him?” “Yas- 
sum, I’ll forgive um ef he can find any work 


88 


ter do, case I can let Cindy help me wid de 
washing.’’ “Well,” said the lady, “you can for- 
give him then as I will take him back to work.” 
“Well, Miss Ruth, thank Gawd for that case I 
sho wouldn’t forgive him ef he had ter loaf 
round home.” 


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THE WITCHES 1 RIDE 







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STORY XI 


91 


The Witches’ Ride 

One night as Uncle Jake left the house to go 
to his log cabin he went singing along carrying 
a tin bucket of cold food which had been saved 
for him by Helen and Roy. He had not gone 
far when he was overtaken by Black Jack, who 
carried in his hands a large red rooster belong- 
ing to Roy. It was dark but the old man car- 
ried a torch and by its light he could see the 
rooster. '‘Ah, ha!” said the old man, “I see 
you got Roy’s rooster. What you gwine to do 
when de chile begin ter cry bout it and de white 
folks begin ter search all us yards fur red 
rooster fedders?” “Ah Lord, dey can sarch an 
sarch, but dey’ll never find um at my house case 
I’se gwine ter burn dem time I picks dis 
chicken.” “Nigger,” said Uncle Jake, “when 
you goes ter take up wid one of de white folks 
chickens er pigs er cows what makes you al- 
ways pick out de ones what belongs to de chil- 
len? You know dey gwine ter miss um and 
Lord knows little Miss Helen mighty nigh ez 
quick ter find out anything ez ole Miss. You 
know ole Miss knows what you thinking erbout 
fore you knows it yerself, and I spects de ghosts 
tells her, don’t you?” “Uncle Jake, I don’t 
know nothing bout ghosts and morn dat I wisht 


92 


ter Gawd you’d hush talking bout um whilst us 
is passing through dere woods.” “Lord, Jack, 
is I ever tole you bout de time I was riding 
home one dark night? I hadn’t, ter say, stole 
no mule, but I had borrowed one onbeknown 
to de white folks an jest as I come by here I 
heerd er sound like de whirlin of wings an de 
air got cold, it did, an a scrooch owl scrooched 
an a whip-poor-will hollowed, an way off in de 
distance a sheep bleat and still farder off a cow 
lowed and hit thundered, but hit didn’t lightin, 
and I heerd er horse neigh an all de time dat 
whirring of wings all bout my ears. Dat horse 
stopped stock still an all my kickin and spur- 
ring didn’t ’vail ter make him go. I lowed, 
'Please, Marster Spirit, let me go; I’se a mis- 
sable sinner but I’ll do better, I sho will/ De 
whirrin of wings kept up an den I lowed, 'I 
streches de trufe,’ den something tole me to my- 
self I better slip off dat horse and make tracks. 
I slipped off, I did, and run fer home, and when 
I got dere Barbara knowed for I told her I’d 
seed a spirit.” “But what come of de horse?” 
asked Black Jack. “Well, next mornin when I 
went up ter de barn to feed de hosses dar was 
Marster Roy and Miss Helen lowed Paragon 
got out of her stable and dey heerd her neigh- 
ing and come out and found her at de gate. 


93 

Jack, I looked at dat horse and I knowed twas 
witches was arter me dat night, and arter I 
slipped off and run home they must er rid dat 
horse pretty nigh er hundred miles, case she 
was covered wid dry lather like er horse dat 
had been rid pretty near ter death and her mane 
an tail was tied in regular witch knots. An arter 
dat I heerd of witches being over in de Shiloh 
neighborhood dat same night an sum of um was 
riding a black horse dat I knowed was Para- 
gon, which you knows dey generally rides er 
white horse.” 
































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AUNT HANNAH 
EXPOUNDS SCRIPTURES 


































































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STORY XII 


97 


Aunt Hannah Expounds the Scriptures 

One Sunday Helen and Roy went into the 
kitchen where Aunt Hannah, the cook, sat rest- 
ing, smoking and nodding. They had just asked 
her to tell them a story, a real nice story about 
slavery time and how good her master and mis- 
tress had been to her, when Uncle Jake burst 
into the room with: “Sis Hannah, is you heerd 
de news?” “Oh Lord!” said that dignitary, “I 
is an I ain’t. Some er de news I’se heerd an 
some of it I ain’t heerd, but I kin see you is 
bustin ter tell some.” “O, Uncle Jake,” said 
both the children, “do tell us about it.” Uncle 
Jake struck an attitude of great importance and 
said, “Well, a man an a woman been killed in 
broad daylight, right in de big road some two 
er three miles dis side of Shiloh.” “Umph,” 
grunted Aunt Hannah, “who dat been killed?” 
“Why,” said Uncle Jake, “early dis mornin Bob 
Fisher tuk and stole Brer Jack Bridges’ gal 
Laura, an dey runned away ter git married. 
Dey had jest been gone bout an hour when Brer 
Bridges found it out an saddled dat big bay 
mule of his’n and shouldered his shotgun and 
rid forth fer ter ketch em and he lowed when 
he did cotch em he was gwine ter kill em both 
widout so much ez lowing em ter say dere pray- 


9 8 

ers, and now dey lying dere welterin in dere 
gore.” Helen began to sob, but Roy realizing 
that Uncle Jake’s sensations were not always 
authentic, asked, “Did you see them after he 
shot them, Uncle Jake?” “No, I ain’t zactly 
seen um but I know dey are lyin dere dead case 
I seen Brer Bridges when he was loping arter 
um wid his gun on his shoulder and blood in 
his eye. Den Barbara lowed dere was blood 
on de moon dis quarter and I knowed dat was 
it.” “Ah, ha !” said Aunt Hannah, “dat mought 
all er cum true ef it hadn’t er been for me ! But 
ez Brer Bridges rid by our gate dis mornin one 
of de Lawd’s handmaidens was dere and turned 
him outen de way.” “How is dat, Sis Hannah ?” 
asked Uncle Jake. “Well, soon in de mornin 
I seen dem young things gwine by on dat pacin 
mule of Sis Leah’s an I spicioned what was de 
matter and I turned de time of day wid dem and 
axed em where dey gwine. Dey up and says as 
I was a mother in de church dey didn’t mind 
tellin me, and dat dey was running away ter 
git married. Dey lowed dey was going ter Shi- 
loh where Brer George Essex was holdin a dis- 
tracted meeting. I knowed ef dey went dere 
dey’d shore be cotched up wid and I said, “Chil- 
lun, you all is my chillun in de sight of Gawd 
case I’m a mother in de church an I kin tell 


99 


you a better way dan dat. You all turn off from 
de big road and go over to old Marster’s and 
ax him, I say, ter please, for Gawd’s sake, to 
inform de ceremony fer you case ef you have to 
go ter Shiloh Brer Bridges gwine shore cotch 
up wid you and think he hatter kill you both 
case he’s made sech er fool of hisself trying ter 
keep you from gettin married.’ Wid dat dey 
struck off through de brushes and went to ole 
Marster’s and I knowed he was dere case de 
Lord done dieted him wid rheumatism and he 
is bleeged ter keep by de fire. Well, I sauntered 
on down de road singing — 

'Roll, Jordan, roll, 

Roll, Jordan, roll, 

Lord bless my soul, 

Roll, Jordan, roll.’ ' , 

Den I sung — 

’Mazin grace, how sweet de sound, 

To save a wretch lak me.’ 

And I was jest gettin ready ter kneel down on 
de side of de road and pray for dem poor chil- 
lun when I heerd something go ‘blockety, block- 
ety, blady go,’ and I looked down de road and 
here come Brer Bridges ridin dat ole big mule 
er his’n wid whip and spur and holdin his gun 


LOFC. 


IOO 


jest as careless ez er white man, I beckoned to 
him, I did, and he stopped and low, ‘Sis Han- 
nah, is you seed my gal?’ I said, ‘Yes, I is and 
I’m gwine ter tell you de Gawd’s trufe, dey is 
gone in a gallop ter Shiloh whare Brer George 
Essex is holdin a distracted meetin and dey 
lowed dey warent gwine ter stop till dey got 
dere.’ Wid dat he said, ‘Gawd bless you, Sis 
Hannah, fer tellin me de trufe,’ and den he loped 
on towards Shiloh.” 

“O, Aunt Hannah,” said Helen, “how could 
you tell such a story? Aren’t you afraid God 
will punish you for it?” “No, chile, dat I ain’t. 
De Bible says, ‘Blessed am he dat tells er lie ter 
squash a fus.’ Shiloh is eighteen miles and 
Brer Jack can’t get back fore sundown, and 
by dat time dey’ll be married and back home 
where Sis Mandy kin pertect dem chillun an 
Brer Jack won’t dast ter tetch em arter Sis 
Mandy done forgives em.” 


BLACK JACK AND 
THE PIG 




STORY XIII 


IO3 


Black Jack and the Pig 

“Chillun,” said Uncle Jake, “is I ever told you 
about de time Black Jack had de pig in his bas- 
ket ?” No, they had not heard about it and 
asked when it could have happened without their 
hearing of it. 

“Does you all member when you went wid 
your mamma ter spend a while in Mobile ?” Did 
they remember it! Could they ever forget the 
delights of that trip! Ah! Ah! “I knowed 
you'd member de time. Well, you know you all 
rid ter de river in the de carridge and Black Jack 
driv. Well, Black Jack ought er got back fore 
sundown, but he made it just about fust dark 
when he come back wid de carridge. He on- 
hitched de hosses out dere by de carridge house 
and sent em to de stable by Beauregard. I war 
out dere in de peach orchard feedin de pigs. I 
spicioned sumpen war wrong when I seed Jack 
climb over de fence and come up ter where I 
war settin on a stump feedin de pigs, so I warent 
sprized when I seed Black Jack sidling up ter 
dat little black and white pig what Miss Helen 
pet so much dat he gentler dan er dog. Fust 
thing I knowed dere warent no white pig on de 
ground. Den I seed Jack slipping off wid sum- 
pin in his basket dat might er been er pig." “Oh, 


104 


Uncle Jake,” cried Helen, “did you let him slip 
off with my dear little white pig?” How did I 
knowed hit was in his basket. I couldn’t see 
much, hit war getting so late. Howsumever, I 
axed ef he had er pig in dat basket and he low 
he might and he mightn’t, but ef he did have one 
he was going ter take it home and kill it and 
have Mary ter cook it and take it ter de all-day 
meeting next day. I laughed ter myself case I 
knowed he’d be slicker dan er eel ef he could 
get by ole Miss wid dat pig. I clum over de 
fence and looked and in de dim light I seed ole 
Miss settin on de front porch wid her hands 
folded in her lap and lookin like she war prayin, 
but I reckon she must have been watchin, which 
de Scriptures commands us ter do de same ez 
ter pray. Well, Jack seed her, too, and he slipped 
erlong like er eel slippin in de water, but just 
fore he rounded de corner ole Miss riz up, she 
did, and say, ‘Put dat basket here on de porch, 
I want ter see which one er dem pigs you got 
in dat basket.’ Jack knowed dere warent no use 
ter say nuthin, and he put de basket down. Ole 
Miss opened it and seed de little white pig and 
she low, ‘Ef you had to steal one you might er 
got one of the others and let Helen’s pet pig 
alone.’ Jack he stuttered and mumbled and arter 
a while he lowed he was just taking it to show 


io 5 

to his chillun. Ole Miss laughed and say, ‘Well, 
you go put it back and don’t you dast to steal de 
one what dem chillun all cry about/ Wid dat 
Jack went and put de white pig back.” “And did 
he steal another one?” asked both the children. 
“Ah Lord, chillun, ef I is free, I ain’t fall so 
low as ter tell tales ter de white folks on my own 
color. And yet,” he added, “at the all-day meet- 
ing de next day I et some mighty nice tender 
young pig, but I don’t pintedly say it come out 
er Black Jack’s basket.” 



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UNCLE NELSE 


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STORY XIV 


109 


Uncle Nelse 

It was just after the war was over and the 
Rev. Mr. Caldwell had returned home and 
was taking stock of his assets. There was 
the dear, noble wife who had cared for her 
three little children with no help except Aunt 
Martha, the faithful cook, who had stayed on 
even when told she was “free.” Aunt Martha 
was the wife of Uncle Nelse, who went to the 
war with Mr. Caldwell, who entered as Chap- 
lain but soon shouldered a musket and came 
out with a Captain’s epaulets. Aunt Martha 
tended a patch of corn, looked after the cows 
and helped in many ways with the support 
of the family. Uncle Nelse looked after Mars 
Wes’ comfort in a thousand ways and often 
when the army was living on parched corn 
he would call Mr. Caldwell out into a secluded 
place and give him a broiled chicken or duck 
and often other delicacies unknown to the 
other soldiers. At first Mr. Caldwell remon- 
strated with him and finally said, “Nelse, you 
must have stolen these things, and if you did 
I ought not to eat them,” but the faithful ser- 
vant said, “Mars Wes, you eat dat vitles and 
quit axin questions, for your stomach’s sake. 
When Miss Occie saunt us out here ter preach 


I IO 


de gospel ter dese here soldiers she lowed, 
‘Nelse, look atter your Mars Wes fer my sake 
and see dat he gets enough ter eat/ Of 
course Miss Occie didn’t spect de commissary 
ter run so low, but neither did she spec you 
ter shut up your Bible and go to fightin, but 
you did, and I never called you ter count for 
it, neither must you call me ter count for get- 
ting a few old chickens and garden truck.” 
After that the delicacies were eaten without 
comment. On his return home Mr. Caldwell 
found that everything, even the bare necessi- 
ties of life, were at a low ebb. Their confer- 
ence would give him a circuit on which to 
preach, but he could not hope to collect more 
than two hundred dollars, and as his circuit 
was large he would be obliged to have a horse 
to ride, and it would take most of that for his 
traveling expenses. Just at this time he re- 
ceived a letter from a schoolmate offering him 
the presidency of a college in Massachusetts. 
It came at a time when he was almost despair- 
ing, and he read the letter to his wife and said, 
“Occie, I hate to give up my life work, but I 
don’t see how I can support my family on the 
pittance my churches can give me. We just 
can’t live on it, that is all.” Before anyone 
could speak Uncle Nelse came in and said, 


Ill 


“Mars Wes, is God called you fer ter preach 
de gospel er ter get rich? ,, “Why,” said the 
minister, “to preach the gospel.” Den you 
go on an preach it and show sinners de way 
of life. You needn’t worry bout Miss Occie 
and de children, cose ef me and Martha can’t 
support dem we aint wuth killing.” “But, 
Nelse,” said the minister, “you and Martha 
are free and you don’t have to stay and work 
for us.” “Humph, you must think me and 
Martha is just common poor folks niggers. 
Waren’t Miss Occie’s father a bishop and 
want your ma kin to a president, and don’t 
you think us ain’t got no more pride dan ter 
let you show your want uv faith in God by 
throwin up de church and gwine off way up 
North ter be a President uv a College? No 
sirree, you keep ter your preachin and I’ll keep 
ter de corn and cotton patch and me and 
Martha will take care uv Miss Occie and de 
children till de folks gets so dey can pay you 
for your preachin like dey did before de war.” 
The minister yielded and for three or four 
years the crops that Nelse made were sold and 
the proceeds went to care for “Miss Occie and 
de children.” As times grew better the minis- 
ter went from circuit to district, from district 
to the pastorate of the finest city churches 


1 1 2 


within his conference, but Uncle Nelse and 
Aunt Martha always accompanied them and 
were made comfortable and happy. Uncle 
Nelse was always given the position of sexton 
and took great pride in the discharge of his 
duties. Years have passed, Mars Wes has 
entered into rest, Uncle Nelse ik old and has 
long since ceased to take thought of his sup- 
port for little Miss Occie and young Mars 
Wes look after him with the same thought and 
care that he gave to look after things in the 
years succeeding the war. 


MARSE JOHNNIE'S 
CHRISTMAS 






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STORY XY 


ll 5 


Marse Johnnie’s Christmas, 

“Chillun, is I ever tole you bout de ghostes 
what hanted de house what marster lived in 
when I fust come to Alabama?” “No, Uncle 
Jake, you never have really and truly told us,” 
said little Helen. “Sometimes you speak of it 
and shake your head, but you haven’t told us.” 
“So I shakes my head, does I? Well, time I 
gets through wid it you chillun gwine shake 
your head and your foots, too. You’ll be so 
scared you’ll think Judgment done here. Miss 
Helen, you better git up close to Marster Roy, 
case I know good and well your teeth will be 
chatterin fore I gets half through.” Thus ad- 
monished, the little girl moved nearer her 
brother and put her hand in his and the story 
began. 

“Well, on Mars Leon place dere was a house 
dat waren’t as big as de big house nor so little 
as some houses I’s seed white folks live in 
since de surrender. Hit was built for ole 
Marster, fore Mars Leon was born, and den 
when Mars Leon was a widower fur de first 
time he built de big house. Atter dat de 
homestead was jes used when de big house 
wouldn’t hold all de company. Well, us nig- 
gers hadn’t ter say seen no real live ghostes 


but us had seen and heard de spirits groan on 
several occasions. Well, dis whut I’m gwine 
tell happened de first X-Mass atter Mars 
Johnnie went ter Tuscaloosa ter school and 
tuck Black Jack wid him atter Black Jack 
killed Mars Johnnie horse, you know, I tole 
you dat story de day Miss Helen was so good 
ez ter give me dat bucket er good vittles. 

All de Fall of de year us didn’t get many let- 
ters fum Mars Johnie, but de ones us did get he 
wus always asking fur money ter buy more 
books er a new uniform. Miss Sarah lowed dat 
she knowed Mars Johnie had quit his wild ways 
and wus studying mighty hard, case he never 
had time ter write home ’cept when he need- 
ed money ter buy more books. But Marster 
shake his head case bit was always 
easier fur Mars Johnnie ter fool his Ma den 
it wus his Pa, fur I spec Mars Leon had 
been ter College hisself. Anyhow, towards 
X-Mas old Miss wrote Mars Johnnie ter bring 
ez many uv his friends home wid him fur 
X-Mas as he wanted and den she lowed de 
dear boy has studied so hard he has hardly 
had time to write home, except when he need- 
ed money fur more books. Mars Johnnie 
turned de answer back dat he would bring 
twelve friends wid him, and fur his Marster 


ii7 


ax about dat many girls ter spend de whole 
two weeks’ vacation.” “Oh !” said Helen, “they 
were going to have a house party, weren’t 
they, Uncle Jake?” “I jes knowed Miss 'Helen 
ud find some new fangled name fur it, but us 
jes called it having company fur Mars John- 
nie’s vacation. Well, de day before Christmas 
us took de carriages and de double buggy and 
de top buggy and all de wagons and went ter 
Clifton ter meet de company. Cose all de 
young ladies was dar de day before. Miss 
Sarah tuck some in de carriage wid her and 
some in de other vehicles and went ter meet 
<ie boys. Mars Johnnie had on his uniform, 
which wus gray, wid brass buttons, and he had 
straps on his shoulders, and de young gentle- 
men what wus wid him called him Lieutenant. 
I ax Jack is dey been ter war and Jack low no, 
but dey getting ready for it, case dey drills 
every day. Most all de young men brung dere 
h>ody servants wid dem, so dey was bout as 
many culled folks as de wus white. Lord, 
de dinner dey had when us got home. I can 
shet my eyes now twenty-five years atter 
freedom and taste dat pig, roasted whole wid 
de apple in his mouf, and dem turkeys and 
chickens and cakes and pies, and God knows 
what. Yes, sir, I et and et and listened ter 


1 1 8 


Black Jack till I went ter sleep and bout all de 
fun dey had up dere. An den I knowed dat 
all de money Mars Leon saunt up dere hadn’t 
been used ter buy books er either uniforms. 
Well, de white folks had a dance dat night and 
all de quality fur miles and miles wus dere. 
Hit wus purty near day when dey broke up 
and all de young men went ter de old home- 
stead in de corner uv de yard ter sleep. Dere had 
been a-plenty er wine and other sech drinks 
dat night, and I guess dey must all have slept 
pretty sound, case I never heard nothing bout 
ghostes next morning, but I knowed suppen 
nuther was gwine ter happen, cose all de signs 
pinted dat way. In de fust place, de moon she 
swung like she done suppen wrong and wus 
shamed uv it. Den dere wus jus even thir- 
teen boys, which is de odd number and always 
brings bad luck.” “O, no, Uncle Jake,” said 
Helen, “I was born on the thirteenth and I’m 
not bad luck, because Mamma says I’m her 
sunshine.” “Sunshine, is you, well I don’t 
know bout dat, cose sometimes when you gets 
your feelings hurt you minds me uv a storm, 
but howsomever us looked fur trouble and hit 
come. Well, every morning some uv de young 
men would tell at de breakfast table bout hear- 
ing strange noises, and in de young ladies' 


ll 9 


room in de big house dey’d hear strange sounds 
and dey’d all laugh bout it cept de prettiest 
girl in de whole bunch, and she’d just turn pale 
in de face and look skered. On a Saturday 
night Miss Sarah lowed dey was all gwine to 
go ter dere rooms and prepare fur de Sabbath, 
case us white folks wus Presbyterians, and no 
matter what happen in de week de Sabbath 
day wus always observed. Barbara slept in de 
little room joinin de big room whar de young 
ladies slept, and Barbara lowed dey wus all 
asleep when suppen tutched her on de furhead 
and lowed ‘wake up and follow me.’ Barbara 
lowed she started fur ter scream, but de ghost 
laid hits finger on hits lips and den Barbara 
low she couldn’t speak, much less scream. De 
ghost low, ‘Wake de young ladies, ’semble in 
de next room.’ Wid dat Barbara went in de 
next room and begun ter scream. En scream 
she did till all de young ladies wus up and in 
de room, and Barbara lowed de ghost done 
come, and I believe hits ole Mistis. Jus den 
in de doorway riz up de ghost as white as 
snow, and shinin wid radiance. Most all de 
young ladies screamed, dey did, but unmindful 
of dat de ghost walked up and laid its hand on 
de prettiest girl’s head, which wus Miss Sallie, 
and lowed ‘I selects you to take my place when 


120 


Leon and Sarah have passed away.’ Wid dat 
she gathered up her robes and vanished, de 
Lord knows whar. Just den de fire on de 
hearth blazed up, and all de young ladies wus 
crying and wringing dey hands, cept Miss Sal- 
lie, and she wus laying lifeless on de floor.” 
“O, Uncle Jake, was she dead,” sobbed Helen. 
“No, she wasn’t dead, jest fainted away, and 
time Miss Sarah and Mars Leon got dere <iey 
put water on her and she come to. And dere 
was much rejoicing mong de niggers next day, 
case we knowed Mars John would do his best 
to marry Miss Sallie, en Gawd knows we all 
wanted him to, case all Miss Sallie lacked uv 
being er angel wus wings.” “But, Uncle Jake,” 
pursued Helen, “how did the ghost get in the 
window?” “Miss Helen,” said the old man 
with emphasis, “I done tole you long ergo dat 
I didn’t try ter find out nothing bout de on- 
natural which happen. Hit come, hit went, and 
dats all dere is erbout it.” 


THE AFFINITIES 



STORY XVI 


123 


The Affinities 

Mrs. Bradshaw went to her country home dur- 
ing the past summer to rest and renew old ac- 
quaintances. She had only just entered the house 
when Susan told her that “de cullud foks” wanted 
to see her as there was a big “disturbment” 
going on. She ran out to the back porch and 
found an array of colored people. Some of them 
she recognized as the old servants, but some were 
new to her. It was easy to recognize “Black 
Jack,” although his hair had grown white. He 
was in a towering rage and seemed about to 
chastise a young colored man who was evidently 
not keen to lock horns with him and was trying 
to explain something to him. Seeing “Miss 
Helen” looking on, “Black Jack” sprang forward 
and seizing the man by the collar began to shake 
him and almost screamed out: “Fore I let you 
go, niggah, yo got to eat yo words. Yes, Lord, 
yo got to swar cros yo hart that yo’ll take ’em 
back from the pullypit.” “Black Jack, I take 
them all back, but I think it’s better not to refer 
to the subject again from the pulpit.” At that 
Jack still retained his hold on his victim, snatched 
a paling from the fence and seemed about to be- 
labor him with it when Mrs. Bradshaw said, 


12 4 


“Jack, let him alone at once. Take your hands 
off him and give the man a chance to explain his 
position.” He gradually let go, but said, “Lord, 
Lord, Miss Helen, he ain’t no man, he’s jest a 
boy what growed up on the plantation heah. He’s 
Uncle Jake’s gran’son and he ought to know bet- 
tah, an ef he don’t I gwine larn him bettah.” 
“What has he done that is so awful ?” “Done ! 
Miss Helen, dis niggah needs all I gwine giv 
him, and den some. When he was a boy he was 
always zortin round, and us was proud to think 
dat one of us boys was called to preach. And 
he sho could preach too ! But atter he got about 
eighteen he tuk a crazy notion to go off ter col- 
laige, I calls it, but he calls it a ’vinity school.” 
Miss Helen looked puzzled and the minister, 
whom she now recognized as Beauregard II, said, 
“Divinity school, ma’am.” Black Jack continued : 
“And that jes ruined him. We pays him to 
preach the gawspel, sted a dat he reads the noos- 
papers and preaches about dis and dat new-fan- 
gled notion what comes along. I stood it longs 
I gwine to, and dis yeah las sarment hab done de 
work. What yo think, Miss Helen, yisterday 
us went to church to heah de gawspel and him 
crucifide and stid er dat dis heah good-fer-nuthin 
niggah was preachin bout ‘finnitis.’ Finnities! 


I2 5 


Now who evah heahd of such a thing. Fus 
thing us knows he be tellin’ some ouh wives dat 
he’s their ‘finnity’ and he’ll up an run away wid 
em.” At this he seemed to have a return of 
anger, and in spite of Miss Helen’s presence he 
grabbed the preacher by the hair and reached 
for the paling. But the scion of the Divinity 
school gave up his fads and yelled out, “Brother 
Jack, I takes it all back.” “Will yo take it back 
from the pullypit?” “Yes, sah, I sho will.” 
“Does yo promise to confine yo sarments to the 
gawspel an him crucifide?” “Yes, Lord.” “Is 
yo gwine to let dem newspapers alone and study 
yo Bible?” “Yes, Lord.” Then the old man re- 
laxed his hold with the utmost composure, and 
began asking, “Miss Helen” about “Master Roy” 
and bragging about the good “craps” he had, and 
a few moments later “Miss Helen” heard him 
invite the minister to dine with him the follow- 
ing Sunday. 



THREE SHORT STORIES 




STORIES XVII 


129 


A Christmas Turkey 

About two months after “Black Jack” had been 
caught red-handed in the theft of the yellow hen 
a large turkey gobbler “came up missing.” It 
required very little guessing to find that it had 
found its way into “Black Jack’s” larder. About 
two weeks later he came up to the “big house” 
and announced that he would be absent from his 
work for a week on a “zortin” tour to take the 
place of a colored minister in another town. 
“But, Black Jack,” said little Helen, “how can 
you preach to other people when you have just 
stolen the turkey gobbler?” And with the ut- 
most composure he said, “Lord, Miss Helen, does 
yo think I’m gwine to give up my blessed Jesus 
jest for one old turkey gobbler?” 


1 3° 


Too Honest for a Lawyer 

After little Roy grew up he came into posses- 
sion of a large plantation which had belonged to 
some branch of the family for generations. To 
the negroes, “Cap’n, as they . called him, was 
the embodiment of wisdom and goodness. Sol 
came to him early one morning wearing rather 
a furtive manner and said, “Cap’n, Fse in a leetle 
trouble. The constable he lowed I’d been shootin 
craps, en he’s lookin for me.” “Well,” asked the 
Captain, “have you?” “No, sir, I ain’t seen no 
craps, cept mah cottin en co’n. En I ben workin 
dem early en late, but he scuses me of it en I’ll 
hatter give bond or go to jail.” “Well,” said the 
Captain, “go to Colonel Elbertson’s office and 
ask him to fix up your bond and send it to me and 
I’ll sign it.” Sol started off but turned and said, 
“Cap’n, will it the same to you if I goes to old 
man Sam Williams?” “Very well,” said the Cap- 
tain, “go to him if you prefer him, but Colonel 
Elbertson is a fine man.” “Yes, sah, I knows dat,” 
said Sol, “but he’s jes nacherly too honest for a 
lawyer.” 


Susan Backslides 


Susan, the colored housemaid who looked after 
little Helen’s room, confided to her that she was 
very much in love with “Brer John Duckery,” 
the new colored minister. All at once she quit 
talking about religion and “Brer Jawn” and 
seemed interested in dancing and other worldly 
amusements. Helen and Roy asked Uncle Jake 
if he knew why she had changed so quickly. 
The old man laughed his low mirthful laugh and 
said, “Lord, chillun, if yo all had been down to 
us church Sunday fo las, yo wouldn’t hatter ask 
dat question. Susan got ter shoutin dat day an 
es de other gals went ter hoi her, she hol- 
lered out loud in church, ‘Take one ter hoi me 
and one can’t hold. Take two ter hoi me en 
two can’t hoi me. Take a rope en tie me and 
de rope can’t hoi. I want my sweetheart Jawn 
ter hoi me.’ Brer Jawn nevah paid no tention 
to her, but went on zortin sinners. Den she up 
an squeal out in church jes as loud as she kin 
holler, ‘Brer Jawn, the Lord sez fer yo ter marry 
me,’ and den Brer Jawn low, ‘Yo go back en tell 
de Lord I ain’t gwine ter do it.’ And, chillun, 
dat how come Susan fell from grace and went 
ter dancin.” 




HELPIN' ERLONG OF OLE 
MISS EANES 





























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STORY XVIII I35 

The Helpin' Erlong of Ole Miss Eanes 


“Mirandy! Come here, where have you been? 
You don’t stay at home half the time.” “Yas- 
sum I does, Miss Leila, I does all I kin to keep 
dis here place in ordiment all de mawnin’ but 
atter dinner I goes over ter help ole Miss Eanes 
erlong. She aint got nobody ter turn er hand 
ter help her and here you is jest you and Mr. 
Horace and your Uncle Milton and dat jest 
makes three white folks and you got three culled 
pussuns to wait on you. Dat all comes of hav- 
ing niggers what uster blong ter your fambly — 
Ole Miss Eanes aint no po white trash if she do 
do her own work. Ef she wus I wouldn’t fool 
wid her fur nothing. When us left Montgom- 
ery ter come down here ter this onlikely place 
Granmammy tole me ter be mighty perticular 
whar I goes — But you know, Miss Leila, I aint 
been uster see white folks work and ole Miss 
Eanes sho do work an her hands is jest as soft 
and white as yourn, an she is one fine white 
lady. How come you don’t go ter see her, Miss 
Leila?” “Solely because she has never been to 
see me, Mirandy, and as I have so recently moved 
here it is Miss Eanes’ place to call first.” “Yes- 
sum, I spec’ yous right but Lordy, I’s jest hon- 
gry fur de time ter come ter go back ter Mont- 


1 36 

gomery, I sho caint stan dese here little wil- 
lages. I can’t see why us come down here yit — 
Don’t look lak Mr. Horace and your Uncle Mil- 
ton is sick ernuff ter zile us down here all de 
Summer. Dey eats deir rations three times er 
day. But you know yourself, Miss Leila, men 
folks us jest born fer ter be troublesome.” 

I had been writing and had let Mirandy talk 
on or rather quarrel on, for Mirandy always had 
a grievance against some one. Her mother at 
her death bed had given her to me, and ever 
since she took her abode at our house I had really 
belonged to her, though Mirandy thought she 
belonged to me. She was very fond of me and 
in a way very faithful to me. Though scarcely 
more than a child, she looked after my comfort 
in a thousand ways ; and another thing — she was 
always on hand, at least she had been until we 
came to this dear little nest of a home for quiet 
and rest. 

My husband and Uncle Milton Lawrence were 
law partners in Montgomery and after a winter 
of very hard work the doctor recommended this 
out-of-the-way place and absolute rest. It was 
a very pretty farm house just in the edge of the 
sleepy little village of Ridgeway. We had been 
here two or three weeks and so far our next 
door neighbor had not called. I regretted this 


*37 


very much as I had fallen quite in love with 
her from meeting her at church. Any attempt 
to describe Miss Eanes is simply beyond me. She 
was of another generation; of the civilization 
that peopled the “Old South,” that is so affec- 
tionately described by writers of consequence. 
She might have been any age between forty and 
fifty. Her form, face and bearing had a delicacy 
that spoke of refinement rather than ill health; 
and yet you never thought of her as a very ro- 
bust person. Through the soft brown eyes one 
caught a glimpse of soul and the waves of soft 
brown hair only slightly tinged with gray were 
the crowning glory of a very lovely person. In 
going alone to church — Horace and Uncle Milton 
had insisted the doctor’s prescription meant ab- 
solute rest, hence absence from church — I had by 
accident gotten in Miss Eanes’ pew. By accident 
the first Sunday — by choice afterward. On Sun- 
day afternoons and all day Monday Horace and 
Uncle Milton declared they heard nothing but 
Miss Eanes, and with some truth too, for I had 
never been more strongly drawn to a person 
than to her. 

One day Horace said, “Miss Eanes evidently 
doesn’t think as highly of you as you and Mi- 
randy do of her or she would come to see you.” I 


hardly knew what answer to make as I had often 
wondered why she did not come and often wished 
that she would. Miss Eanes, when we met, was 
so cordial and kind that I simply yearned for her 
sweet companionship. I love men, they are dear 
creatures but occasionally every woman’s heart 
cries out for womankind. I ought to have been 
accustomed to Uncle Milton Lawrence for he 
had raised me. My father who was his younger 
brother had died when I was ten years old, my 
sweet mother had died a year later. Uncle Mil- 
ton was a bachelor and he and my Aunt Susie, a 
maiden lady and an older sister of his, had had 
exclusive care of me during my bringing up. 
Horace Ransom was a ward of Uncle Milton 
and had lived in the same house, so we had been 
raised together. We had grown up loving each 
other. I had spent so much of my life in the 
company of these two men that they wondered 
that I could care for other companionship than 
theirs. 

Uncle Milton deserves more than a passing 
comment. His life had been filled with good 
works, and while a touch of pathos about the 
mouth bore unmistakable witness that he had a 
history, none could question the purity and beau- 
ty of his life. In a vague, indistinct way I re- 
member mamma having told me something of a 


*39 


disappointment in love, but I could recall so lit- 
tle of it and I would not question Aunt Susie 
as it looked like treason to try to pry into the 
affairs of my noble Uncle. To me he had taken 
the place of father and mother, friend and com- 
panion, so I accepted him as he was and de- 
voutly thanked heaven that he was just as I 
knew him, for I would not have had him changed. 

The next day after I had given Mirandy the 
scolding recorded above, I wanted her, and as 
usual she was over at Miss Eanes. About five 
o’clock she came up to my room bringing me a 
cluster of beautiful white roses. “Miss Leila, 
I heard you call me, but I knowed if you needed 
me de cook could wait on you. Lord know I 
sho does wait on you all de mawnings and in 
de atternoons I takes the fence and goes over 
and help ole Miss Eanes erlong.” “What do 
you do to help her along, Mirandy?” “De Lord 
Miss Leila I does a plenty things over dar dat 
I wouldn’t nigh do over here. Now you know 
I never scrubs over here case I tells de cook 
she hatter do de scrubbing case it hurts me. 
But I meant it hurts my feelings, fer hit show 
don’t hurt my knees. You ought ter see me 
down on my knees scrubbing dat little kitchen 
out next door. Lordy, Miss Leila, is ole Miss 
Eanes any kin ter you?” “How ridiculous, Mi- 


140 


randy” I said. I never even heard of her till 
I came here this summer. But what makes you 
think she is kin to me?” “Case I’ll tell you but 
don’t you tell her nothin bout it. Well hits dis 
er way. I seed some two or three diffunt times 
dat she wus wearing a locket and chain round 
her neck. He, he, he, Miss Leila, you knows dat 
was enough to cite anybody’s curiosity to see 
es old er lady as ole Miss Eanes wearing of a 
locket, so I been doing my dead level best ter 
get a peep at dat ar locket. Well dis evening 
when she went in de bath room I was scrubbing 
out by de door and I lowed shed lef dat locket 
in de house, so time she got in and locked de 
door I hollowed out “Mam? I’m coming, cook,” 
den I struck out ter quarrelin bout yo ought ter 
make dat triflin cook wait on you. Stead er 
comin home I tuck round ter side de house and 
slipped in her room and sho nuff dar was de 
locket exposing peacefully on the bed so. I 
snatched it up, I did, and opened it and what you 
reckon I seed, the picter of de purtiest young 
man and, Miss Leila, he very spit of you. 
Ef he us settin dar by you now I wouldn’t 
know which wus you en which wus him, 
scusin you wear dresses and he wears pants.” 
I sought to be very severe towards Miran- 


da’s prying proclivities, but woman-like my 
indignation was almost swallowed up by my own 
curiosity about the young man who “Looked lak 
me.” I resolved to tell Uncle Milton and Hor- 
ace about it at supper but all thought of it was 
banished from my mind when a few moments 
later Horace came bounding up the stairs, three 
steps at a bound, to tell me that he and Uncle 
Milton had just received a telegram stating that 
interests of one of their clients demanded their 
immediate presence. What could I do ? He 
thought I’d better go too, but Uncle Milton 
thought it would be best for me to see if I could 
spend my nights with my next door neighbor 
and my days at home. I seized upon the latter 
suggestion and telling Miranda to pack both the 
men’s grips I ran over to see if the arrange- 
ment would suit Miss Eanes. Of course she 
would be delighted to have me and I came home 
to drive Horace and Uncle Milton to the station 
and bid them good-bye. It had been so seldom 
in my life that I had been separated from Horace 
and Uncle Milton at the same time that I felt 
very tearful at parting, and I had been brought 
up with the belief that tears were legitimate 
provided they were shed at parting from Hor- 
ace or my dear old foster father. 


142 


Returning from the station I stopped at the 
gate and directing Miranda to take my belong- 
ings over to Miss Eanes I drove over and asked 
her to come with me for a drive. She was pleased 
to go and as we drove out over the quiet country 
roads I noticed that Miss Eanes spoke to every 
one we met, and each one greeted her with a 
smile and expression of affectionate recognition. 
My heart warmed toward her and she seemed 
equally drawn toward me, and we planned little 
pleasures to fill in the time of waiting till the 
men folks should return. There the plans all 
stopped, I couldn’t get her to plan a day’s fun 
after they should return. “No,” she would say, 
“you will be taken up with them and I will have 
to take up my work which I expect to slight 
dreadfully while I have you with me.” I was 
struck by the evident sincerity of her speech 
and nestled close to her in the carriage. Sur- 
prising a very tender look in her sweet brown 
eyes she said while she gently pressed my hand: 
“You are the beautiful image of some one I 
knew and loved in the long ago.” Immediately 
the locket incident came to my mind and I was 
about to ask whom it was I resembled but from 
the look on her face I knew she regretted hav- 
ing said so much. I found that she was deeply 
interested in the charities of Ridgeway, in fact, 


about all such work devolved on her, as the 
plain folk thereabout had little time for doing 
the Master’s work. She had a kindergarten 
class out at the factory where the little ones 
could be cared for for three hours in the morn- 
ing to let the busy mothers get their morning’s 
work over. She did this herself, gave three 
hours of every morning without remuneration 
to the care of these children. She had the class 
of young men at Sunday School, a Mother’s 
Meeting at three every Sunday afternoon, a 
meeting of the Young People’s Society at her 
cottage at six on Sunday afternoons, a class of 
boys she taught from eight to nine on Monday 
and Thursday evenings, and other smaller du- 
ties. To all of these things she gave of her time 
and limited means. Oh ! what a rebuke ’ her 
busy and useful life was to mine. To be able 
to meet these demands she denied herself the 
comfort of a servant and cheerfully found time 
in her busy life to do her small housekeeping. 

When we returned to the wee cottage we 
found Miranda busy putting things in order and 
I realized what she meant by “helping along.” 
How shall I describe that sweet time spent with 
Miss Eanes? Every morning I drove her out to 
her kindergarten class and returned for her at 
midday. It was an inspiration to be near her. 


144 


I told her of my admiration for her life of sac- 
rifice and she seemed pleased; in fact, I went 
about with the pleasing consciousness that Miss 
Eanes approved of me. Not that she was very 
effusive but by her quiet gentle way I knew 
that she cared for me. Horace’s daily letters 
with an occasional note from Uncle Milton were 
bright spots in the day and I felt I was learning 
much by my sojourn with Miss Eanes. She 
was so frank and candid about her present life 
that I longed to know something of her past, but 
she kept it sealed from me, and when three weeks 
had passed and the men folks were coming home 
I still did not even know her Christian name. 
One morning over at my house Miranda said: 
“Miss Leila, is Ole Miss Eanes got a fergiven 
name?” I laughed uncontrollably at this for I 
knew just what dire straits Miss Eanes must 
have been driven to in her efforts at conceal- 
ment, for Miranda boasted in the kitchen that 
she could “Fine” out anything from anybody. 
After a hearty laugh I was obliged to confess 
that I was as much in “de dark” as Miranda. 
She seemed pleased that I did not know what 
she had failed to fathom and she began quar- 
reling in her most approved style somewhat 
after this wise — “Miss Leila, what make white 
folks do dat er way ? How ud it hurt her ter let 


*45 

us know what she name? I don’t reckon hits 
any namer den ennybody else’s name. I believe 
she kin ter us white folks anyhow, case dat man 
whats in dat locket round her neck sho is kin 
ter you, case he sho is de livin image on you. I 
done seed his picter and I know he boun ter be 
kin ter you, caze he looks just lak you does 
when you smiles and look lak you aint fool enuff 
ter tell all you knows.” 

On Tuesday my letter from Horace said, 
“Come to the station to meet us Wednesday 
and bring your paragon of excellence, Miss 
Kanes, with you.” I joyfully read the letter to 
Miss Eanes and added my entreaties to Horace’s 
invitation, but she shook her head in her gentle, 
determined way and said she could not think 
of intruding on a family reunion. After driving 
her over to her class room I went to the station 
to meet Horace and Uncle Milton. I was over- 
joyed to see them and in the delight of being 
with them I wondered how I could have been 
so contented with Miss Eanes and without them. 
A little before noon I wrote her a sweet insistent 
note asking that she come to us for the midday 
meal. I gave it to John and ordered him to 
drive the carriage out to Miss Eanes class room 
to bring her to us. I busied myself with putting 
the men folk’s clothes away, hoping it would 


not be long before we would wend our way 
back to civilization. Horace and Uncle Milton 
looked so well I began to feel very much as Mi- 
randa did about them, or that they wanted rath- 
er than needed this intense quiet. Pretty soon 
the boy came back saying he had left Miss Eanes 
at her home. The note was a sweet one of re- 
gret at not being “able” to come, and signed, 
“Hastily, Miss Eanes.” I felt provoked with 
her. I felt she had not treated me cordially and 
at dinner said nothing about her except that 
she declined my invitation, and encouraged 
Horace and Uncle Milton to tell of their trip. 
Soon after dinner Miranda came in with a griev- 
ance. “Miss Leila, is you said you wus tired er 
my helping ole Miss Eanes erlong? I aint be- 
lieved you said it, kaze I notice you wus mighty 
willin ter stay long wid her while Mr. Horace 
and Mr. Milton wus gond. Granmammy tole 
me when us wus getting ready ter come down 
here dat I warn’t ter let dat nigger ’Oman run 
over me. I ain’t gwine to do it nuther, and ef 
she fool long wid me I’m gwine tell you bout 
her slipping all dat good vittels every day and 
savin it up fer dat nigger man what comes ter 
see her.” This last struck consternation to my 
heart. Suppose Miranda raised a disturbance 
and the cook left me here with no one to come 


147 


to the rescue. Ever since my marriage I had 
nominally been at the head of the house. If 
anything went wrong Aunt Susie was there to 
set things right. I knew but two ways to ap- 
pease the wrath of the cook, one was to forbid 
Miranda going to help Miss Eanes “erlong,” 
the other, and I chose the latter, was to make 
the cook a present of one of my summer dresses, 
that she very much wanted. Miranda left de- 
claring she was going to find out ole Miss Eanes 
“Fergiven” name. 

All the afternoon different little courtesies 
Miss Eanes had shown me bore silent if pow- 
erful witness to the fact that I was censuring 
her without a hearing. As night came on I 
had forgotten my displeasure and at supper I 
talked unceasingly of her courtesy to me and her 
charities to the poor people of the community. 
I told them of the locket incident of how Mi- 
randa had stolen in to see the locket and found 
that I bore a striking resemblance to the “picter 
of a man in de locket.” Uncle Milton was an 
intent though silent listener, but Horace was as 
interested and as curious as I was. After we 
had each of us supposed many improbable solu- 
tions to the mystery Horace turned to Uncle 
Milton and said: “Col. Lawrence, do you know 
of any answer to this problem that threatens 


148 


the peace and serenity of the house of Ransom ?” 
We were both startled by his extreme pallor, and 
without answering the question Uncle Milton 
excused himself and left the table. Horace and 
I sat at the table for a long time in the sheer 
delight of being together once more, selfishly 
forgetting Uncle Milton. I rang for the cook 
and when she answered I was about to bid her 
send Miranda to me when that undisciplined, but 
thoroughly good natured servant burst into the 
room clapping her hands and almost shouting, 
“He over dere, he over dere, he settin in de parlor 
on de sofy long side er ole Miss Eanes and she 
name Mabel and its his picter in de locket. Didn’t 
I know she wus sho nuf white folks?” I waited 
to hear no more but literally ran over to Miss 
Eanes, closely followed by Horace. We found 
them just as Miranda had said. Over Uncle 
Milton’s countenance joy unspeakable sat en- 
throned and in Miss Eanes beautiful eyes shone 
the light of other days. Their explanation was 
simple. Twenty-six years before they had been 
engaged and a misunderstanding had parted 
them in anger. He would not allow her to re- 
turn the locket containing his picture and for all 
these years the gentle Mabel Eanes had worn 
the miniature and loved the original. He had 
not suspected her identity, but she, with woman’s 


1 49 


quick intuition recognized Uncle Milton at once, 
and for that reason had kept away from the 
house. I was so delighted at their happiness 
that I felt grateful for having been buried in 
the sleepy little village and above all for consent- 
ing to the “helping erlong of ole Miss Eanes.” 

































































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